


I've never...

by SnarkyBreeze



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: A Plant Wrote This, Angst, Bisexual Jean-Jacques Leroy, Bisexual Male Character, DJ Otabek Altin, Depressed Otabek, Disappointment, Drinking, Drinking Games, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Friends With Benefits, Heartbreak, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Jealousy, Jean-Jacques Leroy Being an Asshole, M/M, Otabek Altin & Yuri Plisetsky Are Best Friends, Otabek smokes, Past Relationship(s), Pining, Pining Otabek Altin, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Protective Otabek Altin, Singer Jean-Jacques Leroy, Smut, Underage Drinking, Unrequited Love, otabek in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-03-21 02:17:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 21,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13731021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnarkyBreeze/pseuds/SnarkyBreeze
Summary: While playing a drinking game Yuri discovers some unexpected information about Otabek’s past… Otabek looks back at the experience to try to explain how it happened. Strong language (bc Yuri).





	1. I've never...

2016, St. Petersburg

 

“Come on!  Drink!”  Yuri shoved a can in the direction of Otabek, who was sprawled out on the floor of his one-room apartment, his face hidden in a tiger-striped pillow.  He lay on his stomach facing the blushing Kazakh, wrapped in a plush blanket, propped up on his elbows.  He snickered at the hint of pink on tan cheeks.  “It counts.  If me being in the hot spring with Katsudon and Viktor counted as watching someone else fuck then it  _counts_.  Drink.”  Otabek snatched his beer and took a swig, scowling.

“Bastard,” he grumbled.  “Okay.  Your turn.  I’ve never been called kitten.”  He sneered, glancing sideways at the self-proclaimed Rusian Punk just fast enough to see that cute face twisted with anger.  His eyes were back on his laptop screen before Yuri noticed a thing.  “Or fairy.  You can have an extra drink for that one too.”

Yuri used the rest of his beer to drown the stream of profanities threatening to erupt from his lips, then he added it to the pyramid they were stacking between them.  Otabek scrolled through his music library for songs to use in his next gig.  Without looking he reached over and touseled his favorite head of long, silky, blond hair.  Yuri reached up to swat him away but lost his balance and rolled on his side, sputtering.

“Jerk!  Shit,” he hissed, scooting over to rest his head on Otabek’s shoulder.  “Okay, I’m sorry.”

“It’s your turn to ask.”

“I know that!  Let me think!  I’ve never…”  Beautiful green eyes drifted upwards as Yuri tried to think of something crushing and foolproof.  With only the two of them playing, the game had devolved quickly from seeing who had done what into turn-based personal warfare.  Otabek didn’t trust the twisted smirk he was seeing out of the corner of his eye.  He hoped his nerves didn’t show.  Yuri traced a teasing finger down his chest.  “ _I’ve never… fucked… one of my fellow competitors_.”

Otabek’s stomach dropped.  Shit, of course this was bound to come up.  He’d fallen right into Yuri’s trap.  They had been getting along so well since the Grand Prix Final.  They’d had a few amazing weeks of getting to know one another. This particular information, however, really did not need to come up now.  Well, it had been fun, at least.  He couldn’t mourn a good tryst. Yuri’s green eyes burned into him; he could feel their expectant stare even with his eyes closed.  Without opening them, without a word, he took a drink.

“WHAT?!” Yuri clambered onto his knees, straddled him, hands on his shoulders.  “Fuck!  I was trying to be cute and make a move!  Who?!”

Not a word.

“Beka, who?!”

“Shit.”  He downed his drink.  “You’re not going to be happy.”

Yuri twisted two more cans out of their plastic packaging and opened them both.  Otabek couldn’t tell if the look on his face was amusement or horror, but he knew for certain what it would be soon.

“I’ll take a second drink, if that’s okay.”

“Nope, house rules.  You gotta tell me.”

Otabek wasn’t waiting for another loss.  He took a long drink, just for the hell of it.  Sighed.  That little shit.  It would be a fight if he didn’t.

“Um, when I was training in Canada… I was roommates, uh… with JJ.”

“Okay, and?” Yuri pressed.  His face was so close their foreheads were almost touching.

“And nothing.  That’s the end of my story.  Whole answer.”

Yuri fell back onto his lap.  “Wait…”

He nodded.

“No, Beka, really?”

“One-hundred percent the truth.”

“ _Him?!”_ Yuri looked absolutely mortified.  “That asshole?!” 

Otabek pushed him off and crossed to the daybed, far, far away.  

“I told you you weren’t going to be happy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...oh my god, they were roommates


	2. taste in men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A drizzle of warm rain made the streetlights dance off his features. High cheekbones, strong jaw, full lips…
> 
> The alcohol wasn’t really a factor in the attraction… he knew. It had been there.

2013, Toronto

 

Living with JJ was hell.

It wasn’t like he had anywhere else to go - he couldn’t really afford living without a roommate, and he didn’t know anyone else.

The Leroys were coaching him.

It just worked out that way.

They trained together four days a week. It was really easy to get sick of him; Otabek tried his best to practice on his own. He kept his schedule flexible and tried not to settle into a routine. When JJ did show up, and practicing together was unavoidable, Otabek’s ears rang for hours afterward from turning the volume all the way up on his already noise-cancelling headphones.

He didn’t need impromptu lessons from this kid.

Except… they had really come in handy when it came to that quad Salchow.

He couldn’t be mad.

And JJ had actually been pretty cool - considering. It wasn’t hard to find things to dislike about the boastful, loud-mouthed, attention-seeking pretty boy, but wasn’t particularly hard to find his redeeming qualities, either.

He liked the same bands. He had a surprisingly good taste in music and loved to share and discuss his new finds. When there wasn’t anything going on, he sat around playing covers on his way-too-expensive acoustic guitar. It was only sometimes annoying.

* * *

 

_I can’t tell Yura any of this shit._

* * *

 

Otabek liked to go out on weekends, seeing bands in cold, unfinished basements or the occasional large venue. He offered around to mix sound levels when he could. JJ came with him sometimes, but usually he had his own gigs to play. JJ Style was fine, but it was so transparent. The music wasn’t the focus, the success was. And especially when Otabek knew the kinds of songs his roommate really liked, the things he played for fun. It ruined the experience. The band was a job; the JJ on stage was a character, just like the one on the ice.

But yeah, he totally did mix sound for them for a while. He’d even gone up on stage and sampled clips live a few times.

It’d been nice.

And he didn’t really care that he was arrogant. Some people just are. Wasn’t that just another form of confident?

* * *

 

_Yura isn’t much different… just quieter._

* * *

 

When they were at home, when there was no one to impress, to engage… The Canadian was a lot more relaxed. Not many people saw that side of him. Domestic JJ. He was tidy - minimal, unlike Yuri, whose personality bled out into his apartment like too much cheetah-print ink. He cooked adventurously and always made enough for two. Otabek never had to worry about anything other than the monthly check the bore his cut of the expenses; all the direct payments and dealing with the landlord fell on JJ, and he seemed fine with it.

He hated to admit it… but he was just kind of a friendly guy, underneath it all. Sensitive, but his feelings manifested in odd displays of dominance or rambling half-true anecdotes featuring himself as a dashing protagonist. That stuff seemed inscrutable out in public, but everyone had some kind of armor they have to put up to get through the day. Leather jacket or sparkling, perfect smile. They serve the same purpose.

Sometimes Otabek could manage to drag the at-home version of JJ out of the house with him. When it was just the two of them, at a show where they didn’t know anyone, especially if he got him stoned first, they would hang back on their heels and listen, and join a larger group, and everything wasn’t All About JJ All The Time. They’d try to hook one another up with someone cute, then hide, snickering, while the other tried to self-preserve.

They’d brought a few girls home that way.

Well, JJ had.

Otabek was still not entirely sure how to tell him that he wasn’t interested. It was just a game to him; he didn’t have to play to win just to enjoy it. And he couldn’t help it if girls thought he was cute.

What really was hell, though…

* * *

 

_I can’t say it._

_“Look, I’m not mad that you fucked him. I’m… yeah. A little betrayed.”_

_Yeah._

_“I just want to know what you liked about him… Not to fight you… I just want to know.”_

* * *

 

What really was hell… was the moment it hit him.

When he couldn’t go back.

They’d been out at a basement show. $1 beers. The two of them had probably gone through half of what the host had to offer. It was the only place Otabek, still barely 18, could drink outside of the apartment. They had stumbled home, a little dust cloud of raucous laughter kicking up around them wherever they stepped. They were listening to Placebo through the same pair of earbuds - a fragile tether between two volatile objects.

JJ was singing along. Getting into it. A little pout thrust forward to exaggerate the angsty lilt of Brian Molko’s lyrics wasn’t enough to hide the dizzy smile underneath.

Shit.

It was hot.

A drizzle of warm rain made the streetlights dance off his features. High cheekbones, strong jaw, full lips…

The alcohol wasn’t really a factor in the attraction… he knew. It had been there.

The stuffy air of the stairs to their apartment. The green hum of fluorescent lighting.

And he was still singing. Not for anyone. Just for himself. Leaning on Otabek’s shoulder.

“Jean…” JJ’s eyes flashed in his direction, a little half-smile, enough to show he was listening.

But Otabek wanted his full attention. He barred his arm across the stairs, pinning him to the wall, blocking his path, inches away from his face. Grey irises were nearly eclipsed by pupils like dark moons.

He felt the words leave him, he heard them ring between them as if they weren’t his own.

“Jean… I swear… If you keep singing like that… I might just want to fuck you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed it, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! Check my profile for more YOI content!


	3. what he was to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you knew what to look for, Yuri was as sensitive and self-conscious as anyone.
> 
> Shit, actually, that was a lot like JJ.

2016, St. Petersburg

 

Yuri’s laugh was… a relief, to be honest. He’d burrowed away under his blanket, shaking and chortling with relentless mirth.

“You really did that. You made the first move!” he squealed, stamping. “Oh my God this is hideous. Did you even know he was bi? Shit, Beka, falling for your supposedly-straight roommate, you’re a stereotype!”

“Yura…”

Yuri’s head popped up from beneath the folds of his blanket cape. There was some serious judgement in those eyes. His face was rosy, twisted into a brutal grimace. He dabbed at the tears streaming down his cheeks, then fell laughing, again, on his side.

“I thought you were upset,” Otabek sighed. The bed smelled like strawberries. As he’d mumbled his way through as sensitively-worded a version of his story as he could, Yuri had stumbled through the room adjusting lights, dimming lamps, and plugging in strings on twinkling LEDs on the walls. The result was cozy. The heavy summer air and heavily-scented candles were dizzying enough, but mixed with the alcohol the effect was hypnotic.

Otabek really did not want to ruin this night talking about his relationship with the Canadian, but on the other hand, it was all he had. Yuri had tried to move on him. He wasn’t interested in a drunken fling. He wasn’t interested in a fling. For all the years of admiring the boy’s determination and discipline and attitude… it was only recently that they’d finally gotten to know each other.

Maybe he should keep talking about JJ. Deflect the blatant romantic atmosphere. He was a lot better at apologizing than he was at turning down some action. And it’s not like he didn’t want action. He just didn’t see Yuri that way yet. He’d pulled himself out of deeper holes than this many a time; he decided to keep digging.

“To be honest, I didn’t really care what he was. In vino veritas, right?” He hugged a damask pillow close to his chest. “We were spending all our time together. I wanted him.”

Silence.

Okay… so digging deeper was a mistake.

Yuri was picking at his fingernails, curled into a ball on his side. He was quick to tease when he felt at risk of showing some sort of emotional vulnerability. His armor. But as much effort as he put into hiding behind a vicious quip or a vulgar outburst, he was lousy at masking his true feelings. It was one of the Russian Fairy’s more endearing qualities - it was probably the only reason why Viktor and that Japanese kid from Detroit even put up with him. When you knew what to look for, Yuri was as sensitive and self-conscious as anyone.

Shit, actually, that was a lot like JJ.

Yuri’s stubbornness when it came to emotional shit meant an awkward, pregnant silence hanging between them until Otabek figured out what to say next. Caring about other people was hard. Finally, exasperated and hoping there was one beer left, Otabek rolled from the bed to the floor, still clutching the pillow. All the cans were empty - he even shook a few to see if one had accidentally gone unfinished.

“So… what? Did you fuck him right there on the stairs or did you at least have the decency and restraint to wait until you were inside?”

* * *

 

“ _Oh my god, Beks, I should be so lucky. Come on, I’m drenched_.”

* * *

 

“I didn’t,” Otabek replied. “He laughed it off like I was joking. Kept singing that stupid song, then went right up to bed.”

 _Left me awake and burning_ , he wanted to say.

Yuri snorted. He did not turn or roll to face Otabek. He barely moved; on his side, curled up, he examined his chipped nail polish on one hand while the other was busy stroking Potya. Shit.

“I let him go - I didn’t want it to be one-sided, I guess. He ended up… next time we drank…” he craned his neck to try to assess Yuri’s expression without being noticed. No success. He figured he could trust the maelstrom of angry storm clouds and stink lines radiating from him, a nearly-visible, nearly-tangible aura that warned - even threatened Otabek to be very cautious with his next move.

“Look. I get why you want to know. I know what you want. And it sucks, I mean…” He sighed, shook his head. It wasn’t easy to talk about this kind of stuff. “I know what it is you want from me. Because it’s the only - Yura?  _The only_  - thing he wanted. And I don’t want you to think I don’t, or I’m turning you down, or anything like that. Actually, the opposite. I am kind of crazy about you. You make me nervous and happy and…”

He swallowed hard.

“And JJ broke my heart. I was younger than him, and I was so hungry for him, and he took advantage of that, Yura. And you… are amazing. Lovely. Funny. Cool. And way younger than I was when we first… I don’t doubt your feelings are real. Mine were. But I don’t want to be to you what he was to me.”


	4. my sweet prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JJ sat down next to him and leaned against his shoulder. His hair smelled like mint and a little like sweat, but all the same it was soft against his cheek.

2013, Toronto

 

JJ dragged himself up the stairs and into the apartment without another word to Otabek, leaving him panicked and soaking wet in the stairwell.

His heart was pounding. He had just confessed. Kind of. Well. Propositioned. _Well..._ More like threatened.

It didn’t matter anyway. JJ hadn’t even tried to take him seriously. Maybe neither of them would even remember it happened, come morning. He could only hope.

The next morning and the week that followed were quiet and tense. There were no unwarranted lessons during their independent practice time. In fact, for what felt like the first time in months, Otabek practiced alone. He ought to have been thrilled. But, finally blessed with a quiet practice rink and no scrutinous eyes, he actually found himself less able to focus. JJ’s sudden avoidance was so jarring; he could think of nothing else but _how could_ and _why didn’t I just_ and _what if he_ and so on.

At home, meals were still cooked for two, but eaten alone. Acoustic guitar still buzzed and sang, but from the privacy of JJ’s bedroom. When he did spend time out in the living room it was to tune out in front of a video game. No invitations to join. No chips and beer. This was self-preservation.

But why? If he thought it was a joke, why was he pushing away all of a sudden?

Maybe Otabek just needed to talk about it. Apologize for making him uncomfortable and acknowledge that it was a bad idea born from a moment of impaired judgment.

Unfortunately, that would be a lie. His judgment was the same now as it had been Saturday night. And now that JJ was all the more out of reach... the ache of wanting was becoming unmanageable.

* * *

 

 _”I’m not a kid. I can take care of myself.”_  
_I’m not going to take advantage of you.  
__”How would you be if I want it?_ ”

* * *

 

The following weekend, JJ Style was playing some all-day music festival. Otabek had planned on going, but when Saturday rolled around it didn’t seem worth the stress and isolation. He stayed in bed all morning, chasing away thoughts of JJ’s face in the artificial glow of the lights in the stairwell, pupils wide, body pressed against his own... If only he’d gone in for that kiss when he had the chance.

He spent some time at the gym, trying in vain to keep his mind occupied. He wanted to skate but the loneliness practicing had brought him lately didn’t seem worth it. He got a fast-food dinner and wasted away the rest of the evening on video games before collapsing early into bed and trying - unsuccessfully - to get to sleep before JJ got home.

From the rhythm of his heavy footfalls Otabek could tell he was drunk. A click of glass bottles confirmed his suspicion. The band was here. Crashing, he was sure, on the couch again so they could party just a bit longer into the night. He thought he heard one or two girls with them.

The crew’s celebration was just enough to keep Otabek awake. He turned to his laptop, tried to work on his music, then to study videos of various skaters’ quads, then even to just play a game. No use. He was miserable. He cranked up the volume on his headphones and closed his eyes.

JJ didn’t knock when he entered an hour later.

”Beks?”

The door closing behind him shook Otabek from his half-sleep. He sat up, shaking his head.

”Jean...” he murmured.  JJ sat down next to him and leaned against his shoulder. His hair smelled like mint and a little like sweat, but all the same it was soft against his cheek.

”I thought you were coming to the Jamfest. I missed you today.”

Otabek stared hazily into his lap, unsure what to say. JJ’s weight pressed into his side was paralyzing. He found himself becoming acutely aware of every spot where their skin touched - JJ’s chin on his shoulder, his hand on the back of Otabek’s neck, the way their bare ankles brushed together as JJ swiveled his hips to face him. 

And then, seamlessly, his hand underneath his shirt, lips on his neck, the dizzying tingle of fingertips teasing up and down his spine. 

“Jean...” he gasped. “I-“ 

He was shut up by JJ’s lips against his own. The Canadian pulled Otabek underneath him on the bed, face in his hands, kissing him without any sort of inhibition. Otabek could hardly breathe. As the tension mounted between them he clawed at JJ’s back, pulling greedily at his tank top, his hair, the waistband of his jeans... JJ’s body was drawing him in - he couldn’t pull him close enough. He ripped the tank top off, and then his own, was sent reeling at the first sensation of their bare bodies pressed together.

”Is this okay?” JJ breathed into his neck. Breathless, Otabek nodded, and the two fell back together onto the bed, pawing and grasping at every inch of one another they could reach, kissing and biting hungrily at each other’s necks and lips and shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed it, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! Check out my profile for more YOI content!


	5. now what?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He couldn’t leave Yura. Not when they were just starting to get to know one another. Not now. He could tell the abrasive, ambitious teen wasn’t rich in the friend department, and neither was he. Not since he’d moved home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I do in my fics is torture poor Otabek but I promise it's because he's my favorite.
> 
> Sorry if you don't like him smoking. Yuri doesn't either.

2016, St. Petersburg

 

“I need to smoke,” Otabek huffed, rising warily to his feet.  Yuri didn’t move.  “Coming?”

Nothing.  He leaned precariously over the boy curled up on the rug only to find that he’d fallen asleep, curled tightly around his cat, fingers still combed idly through soft white fur.  Taking great care to lift with his legs and making every effort not to disturb Yuri’s slumber, Otabek hoisted his friend onto the bed and tossed the plush blanket overtop him.  Potya jumped up with a possessive _mrowl_ and situated himself sleepily on top of his human, leering up at Otabek with daring eyes.

 _Yeah, I know_ , he thought bitterly, _he’s yours, not mine_.  _I’ve never really gotten the hang of “mine.”_

He stepped out into the warm summer night; the air hung heavy and humid around him as he fished a cigarette from the carton in his pocket.

There was no wind.  Everything smelled like wet asphalt.  Otabek fiddled numbly with his lighter for a few moments before producing a flame.  The smoke mingled with the balmy air was sweet, sticky like molasses.  He watched his own stress swirl in sinewy strands around his head as he exhaled, felt the tension leave his shoulders and lower back with guilty indulgence.  What a joke of an athlete. 

* * *

 

            _I’m the king, J.J.! Just follow me; this is who I am…_

* * *

 

Jean had blown it; he’d been pitiful out on the ice at the GPF and he, Otabek, had given it his all.  He’d worked twice as hard.  He’d landed all his jumps.  Somehow, though, he still fell short. 

The same had happened at the Four Continents.  Back up against Katsuki and with the news that Viktor was returning to the ice, Jean’s nerves were visible – almost tangible.   And yet he still made the podium – second to the Ace of Japan and just ahead of Leo de la Iglesia.  Otabek had flubbed a few jumps. He missed the podium by half a point.

This past season had only reinforced his desire to cast aside skating altogether and focus on his music. 

But he’d only just begun to train here in Russia.  Viktor was taking on more students after clinching gold at Nationals and Europeans _and_ Worlds, Otabek was one of the first he approached, impressed with the unconventional beauty of his GPF program.

Viktor was infamous for seeing the beauty in the work of losers.  Look at Katsuki. 

He couldn’t leave Yura.  Not when they were just starting to get to know one another.  Not now.  He could tell the abrasive, ambitious teen wasn’t rich in the friend department, and neither was he.  Not since he’d moved home. 

Yuri was really all he had right now.  If it weren’t for some… uncomfortable hang-ups he harbored about cohabitation he probably would have tried to room with him to dodge the looming loneliness that came with living a continent away from home.

* * *

            “ _Bek… Beks… hah… fuck… right… right there… fuck… oh my ffffffffucking god don’t stop…”_

* * *

 

He pulled hard on the cigarette and watched the glowing end brighten and crawl in response.  The smoke trickled from his nose and hung low over his head – his own personal dark cloud. 

Maybe the right thing to do now was to give Yuri some space.  He’d panicked.  Stacked the shit of his soul on top of the shit of his past all in the course of an hour.  He still didn’t know what his best friend was thinking after all of that.

He wouldn’t know until morning.

“Goddamnit,” he growled, crushing the remaining half a cigarette between his fingers and stamping it out on the sidewalk.

He slipped silently into the apartment and sat at the café-style table in the kitchenette.  Yuri kept a notepad there patterned with succulents and cats, next to a coffee mug full of assorted pens.  Otabek used purple to scrawl out a quick note.  He taped it to the back of Yuri’s phone to ensure he’d find it in the morning. 

 _Yura, I’m sorry last night went to shit._  
_I really do care about you. Your friendship is the best thing that_  
_happened to me this year, and I’m not ready to give that up._  
_Maybe we should actually talk about what we’re both looking for._  
_Call me when you wake up.  I’ll buy you breakfast._  
_~Beka_

The lithe figure curled up on the bed was snoring a delicate little snore, and as Otabek crept over to gather his things Yuri stirred, shifted under the covers.  His hair fell in silky tangles over his face. Otabek absent-mindedly smoothed his bangs back, tucking them behind his ears.

“You reek,” Yuri mumbled into his pillow; Otabek jumped, pulling a quick double-take to make sure he hadn’t inadvertently woken him.  When he was certain he was getting no indication of consciousness, he leaned over and brushed a quick kiss onto the bit of forehead he’d just uncovered.  Then he slid his laptop into his backpack, gingerly gathered up the empty cans, and slipped out once again into the heavy summer air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?


	6. As if I don't already know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He couldn’t read whatever was behind those eyes, he could only see the eyes themselves, pupils blown wide, eclipsing any hint of gray. He wanted to know JJ had heard him, even if it meant a rejection. He wanted to know his feelings were understood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to just keep this going after all. Look at that. K is a Huge Gay Disaster.

2013, Toronto

 

Currently, Otabek had the apartment to himself.  JJ was on tour for the entire month of June.  His latest album had just come out, _King JJ_ , and the entire summer was devoted to promoting it in time for use in next season’s skating program.  It was all one big system, meticulous and disturbingly effective.  He was building anticipation to draw support for next year.  Photos from all over North America had been flooding Otabek’s Instagram for days.  Soon they would shift to European cities.  All would feature a huge dimpled grin and the signature “J hands”.

It had been two weeks.

Otabek had called once, just to hear his voice.  He’d made up a few housekeeping-related questions to justify the call, then timed everything out so they could chat while JJ was on the road.  After discussing where to address the rent check and whether or not they had recycling that week, Otabek had begged and pleaded for JJ to let him polish off that bottle of whiskey that had been taunting him from the freezer.  He couldn’t buy his own yet.  JJ had given him trouble, and he’d promised to pay for a replacement _and_  the next bottle, and JJ had listed a few friends who would happily run for him, and Otabek had talked a little dirty, and then he had talked a lot dirty, and JJ had told him that Justin wanted to know why he was turning red, and Otabek had told him just say yes, and he had said of course, just be careful about drinking alone, and Otabek had said thank you I love you, and JJ had said no you don’t, silly.

Silly.

Was he really silly?  They had been having sex for months now, and had lived together for plenty longer, and JJ had let Otabek bestow upon him gifts and adorations and declarations of his beauty, had admitted how happy he was in their arrangement.

Otabek was happy with JJ.  He was happy with JJ’s body next to his, JJ’s skin on his skin, JJ’s lips on his lips.  He was happy with the satisfying way they fit together in the apartment, the easy conversations at dinner and quiet, relaxing evenings.  He was happy with the boisterous, flashy JJ that dragged him out to concerts and parties, demanding the attention of everyone around him.

The problem with their arrangement, this whole “friends with benefits” deal, was deceit.  Isn’t that all it was?  They could be getting to know each other and falling into something real and serene and mutually happy (love?) when they were busy deceiving themselves and each other and everyone around them.  Every day going out to train together, nothing more than competitors, and Nathalie and Alain Leroy nothing more than coaches.  They kept a respectful distance in the daytime, outside, dancing cautiously around one another until they could return home and tear one another to pieces.  There was nothing special between them, merely physical pleasure and a silly secret.

Otabek wanted to love JJ.  He wanted chaste kisses, without tongue, that weren’t simply the initiating move.  He wanted, for once, for JJ to stay with him after they had sex and fall asleep in his arms instead of leaving him with a kiss lingering on his lips.  He wanted JJ’s love in return.  He wanted to feel it in his gut, where now he only felt a rumbling, hungry emptiness; the same nausea he felt from drinking tea without any food in his stomach; the need to vomit, but nothing inside to expel.

He knew how his roommate was on tour.  He’d kept a keen eye on JJ’s Snapchat since he’d left, had seen the co-eds who’d managed to snag supporting roles in the videos he posted of afterparties and backstage hangouts and hotel rooms with soft lighting.  He knew about the girl with the long, black hair, the fan club girl, whose full red lips kissed in his direction whenever they shared the screen together.  Hands resting lightly on Otabek’s favorite little places – the subtle curve just under JJ’s ribs, the muscle of his hips, smooth and strong and modest.  Kisses on JJ’s cheekbones and jawline and the just close enough to the corner of his mouth to offset his signature smirk.

The sight of others being granted access to those little intimate places made Otabek’s chest tight.  He knew JJ was not his.  People do not belong to people.  He had no right nor claim to anything his friend had to offer.

But JJ _had_ offered – had opened his doors to let Otabek in, just enough to give him a taste, to keep him hungry, coming back for more.  Those little indulgences of flesh… those were all Otabek had.  He felt selfish, ungrateful for wanted, foolish for thinking they could have been exclusively his.

Things were quiet in the apartment, the kind of resounding quiet that begs to be broken, filled with laughter and music and chitchat.  JJ made himself so big, made his presence so undeniably known that everywhere he’d been felt wrong, negative.  Otabek did his best to blast his music or the television while he was home to fill all the empty spaces.  He kind of enjoyed having the place to himself, though, considering.  He could do some prime being-alone stuff if he wanted.  He could call home, or get high and listen to classical music, or go out to the rink and _skate_ , no distractions, no constant, nervous awareness of JJ’s eyes burning into him. 

He could call JJ and ask how last night’s show was.  He could call him and ask how _he_ was.  How the weather was in Whatever City.  Whether he liked Dr. Dog’s new album.  He could call JJ and not say anything at all, just to hear him breathing on the other end.  It had been two weeks, but his smell still lingered in his usual spots all throughout the apartment.  Last Otabek had talked to him, he’d sounded like he’d barely conquered his hangover from the previous night.  Otabek wanted to hear a smile in his “hello” this time.

JJ had told him not to call, simply because the tour bus was small and it was easy to hear others’ phone conversations.  No matter where he sat, every one of his band mates would hear their exchange of words.

Couldn’t they talk as friends?  As roommates, even?  Otabek guessed the little bit of rhetoric he’d used to coax that bottle of whiskey out of JJ had left him feeling a bit on-edge, aware of his close quarters.  The thought of being able to make JJ nervous, causing his breath to hitch in his chest, his teeth catching his bottom lip, telltale red creeping across his skin just beneath the collar of his t-shirt, that thought crawled under Otabek’s skin.

This wasn’t something that could exist outside of the apartment.

The loneliness ached in Otabek’s back and shoulders.  He’d already finished the alcohol.  He tried, several times, to go to sleep, to relinquish his thoughts and memories and wanting to his dreams for at least a few hours.  But sleep never came, and in fact Otabek was feeling more restless than tired as he passed midnight into the early morning.

 

* * *

 

The next time he tested his “I love you,” Otabek was drunk on the floor.  He’d asked JJ to share his replacement bottle of whiskey to celebrate his return home.  They downed the bottle, taking turns.  JJ smelled like sweat and cologne and spearmint gum.  He didn’t have on that goofy smile that hid his moon-gray eyes, and he was wearing trousers, not the faded, worn-out jeans he wore three times a week.  His shirt lay discarded on the arm of the sofa.  It was hot in the apartment.  They kissed a little.  Otabek tested how close he had to be to the soft, smooth skin of JJ’s neck before it jumped to gooseflesh.  JJ was talking a lot, reveling in story after story of his exploits out on the road.  His words only stopped when Otabek stole his lips, evaporating into a shallow breath that was hot against his cheek.

“Jean I love you,” he said, before he knew what he was doing.

“No you don’t, silly.” 

JJ knew what to say.  He wasn’t too drunk.  Otabek kissed him hard, drenched in need and greed and want.

“Jean I need you.”  A handful of black hair.

“You’re drunk.”  JJ broke away, his hands resting under Otabek’s jaw, fingers stroking lightly behind his ears.  His pupils were moons inside moons.

“That doesn’t change the way I feel, Jean, it only makes it easier to say.”  Otabek pulled JJ’s hands to his lips, kissed them.  “Being sober means checking yourself and thinking about consequences.  But fuck consequences, Jean, I want to be more than your regular fuck and you’ve known it since the day we started it,” he said, the heat rising in his face.  He buried his face in the curve of JJ’s neck, lips seeking out their favorite spot, the softest bit to kiss, suck, bite.  He continued mumbling into JJ’s shoulder in Kazakh, felt him go boneless beneath him.

 _“Please have me.  Please love me.  You are so beautiful, please…”_ he let it all slip out, not even bothering to speak English, knowing it would be received the same either way. He punctuated every word with little bites, pinching and teasing as he spoke.  _“You are all I have, you are all I want…”_

JJ shuddered despite the summer heat.  His eyes were dark, hooded and glassy in the lamplight.

“Beks, let’s go to your room,” he panted.

“What… would that mean?” Otabek asked, rising and extending a hand out to the other man.  They stood for a moment, eyes locked.  He couldn’t read whatever was behind those eyes, he could only see the eyes themselves, pupils blown wide, eclipsing any hint of gray.    He wanted to know JJ had heard him, even if it meant a rejection.  He wanted to know his feelings were understood.

But before he got an answer JJ’s lips met his and JJ’s hands were bracing his shoulders, steering him in the direction of the bedroom, body pressed hot against his as he let himself be herded through the door and towards the bed.

“Jean,” he breathed.  He needed to keep talking; it was dangerous how willing he was to fall right back into their old routine.  It would be right back to the way it always was – a burst of passion, no words exchanged between the two of them, and then JJ would be gone until morning, and he, Otabek, would be left alone.  To his surprise, JJ backed off and eyed him hungrily as he lowered himself onto the bed. 

“Just… promise me you’ll stay.  Just tonight,” Otabek whispered.  He slid out of his clothes and under the blankets, and JJ slid after him, stepping gingerly out of his pants as he went.

“You really missed this, huh?” JJ said with a little smile.  The heat seemed to radiate from his body – he made Otabek burn.  Fingers laced together.  JJ’s lips breathing hotly into the back of his neck.  JJ’s hips melting into his.  It was a fine balance, the moment before, the anticipation.  Fingertips teasing along ribs and shoulders and arms.  Otabek turned and looked JJ in the eyes, brought JJ’s hand to his lips and kissed each fingertip.  Every knuckle.  Never breaking eye contact.  He wanted so badly to feel like he had this, not that he had to take it when he could.  JJ reached out, combed his fingers through Otabek’s hair, smiled.  He traced the line of his jaw.  Scratched the small of his back. Unable to control himself any longer, Otabek pulled JJ on top of him, rolling onto his back and kissing up into his open mouth.

Otabek rocked his hips up into JJ’s, drawing out a sharp little gasp, causing JJ to dig his fingers, white-knuckled, into his sides.  JJ continued to grind down on him, reached down and lifted his head into another kiss.

“Yeah, you fucking missed this… Beks… hah…”  he panted, and Otabek caught his lower lip between his teeth and bit down hard, making JJ jump and rut against him.

They were working their bodies furiously against one another, grinding bone into bone, their hands clutching at whatever they could find for support, scratching notes of gratification into the skin on each other’s shoulders, biting it into the curves of their necks, as blood rushed and hearts raced against one another.  Watching JJ’s eyes roll back into his head, his back arch, his shoulders tense in pure ecstasy was even hotter to Otabek than the sex itself.  He clutched little bruises into JJ’s hips, pulling him closer, betraying himself as gasps of satisfaction escaped his throat, _I love you, oh god, Jean please, let’s..._

JJ rode him relentlessly, fucking himself down onto Otabek as he sputtered nonsense, rambling prayers to profane gods.  Otabek tried to meet his rhythm, but he could hardly think let alone move due to the rapidly-mounting heat between his legs.  The pressure was building behind his eyes, curling low in his stomach.  He grasped JJ in one hand, his fingers slipping over the soft, hot skin, and JJ fisted the bedsheets on either side of him, head thrown back, swearing loudly.  Then it was over; Otabek’s release brought stars into his vision and he groaned loudly, dizzy and immediately spent.  He kept his arm working, tough, and with a little twist of his wrist JJ let go too, collapsing, heavy and boneless, onto Otabek’s shoulder.

They were a mess, and Otabek reached down next to the bed for a towel to clean them up, but as he did so JJ stood and started to gather his things.

“I… I’m sorry, Beks.  It’s just been so long since I’ve been in my own bed.  You know?”

Otabek said nothing.  He was not surprised.  He’d expected no less.  He rolled onto his side.

“Goodnight, Jean,” he muttered, staring into the dark.  He held his breath until he heard the door close.

Just because he’d expected it doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new Yuri/Otabek chapter is coming VERY soon! Like, probably tonight! Stay tuned!


	7. As if you don't already know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The glowering flash of green eyes behind his long bangs was jarring – Otabek was used to guarded retorts and moody glares but those were all just a facet of Yuri’s personality. This was different. He couldn’t quite place a finger on it, but something in that look was more than just a façade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you you'd get more by tonight!

2016, St. Petersburg

 

_I was promised breakfast._

The text lit up Otabek’s dark closet of a bedroom next to a digital clock that read 7.18.  He hoped to god the power had failed again sometime during the night and it was really seven hours since the clock reset.  He knew he’d seen 3.30 and later 4.00 on his cell phone before he finally drifted into sleep.

But the clock would be blinking if it had reset.  It really was this ungodly hour on a Saturday morning in St. Petersburg.

_How are you fucking awake_

_Good morning, fucko_

_I’ve been puking since 6_

_Poor baby Yura can’t hold  
his beer?_

_More like giant loose asshole_  
_Beka tricked me into a rigged_  
_drinking game_

_I’m hurt, Yura._

_Wounded, even?_

Otabek didn’t bother showering.  He’d do it at Yuri’s.  He was already out the door and almost down to the entrance of his building, squinting against the viciously bright morning sun.  It wasn’t doing anything good for his headache, that was for sure.  In terms of hangovers, this was one of his more manageable ones, but without that cushion of a good night’s sleep providing him with the energy he needed, he felt like a dead man walking.

He lit a cigarette, hoping the nicotine would curb at least a bit of the pain, then moved to text Yuri about breakfast.  There was already a message waiting for him.

_I’m hurt too._

Oof.  He felt that one right in the pit of his stomach.  It probably was a little dumb to assume last night’s conversation just wouldn’t come up, would be buried beneath the process of coping with pounding heads and churning stomachs.

But then again, he had asked for this.

 _Yura, I’m sorry last night went to shit._  
_I really do care about you. Your friendship is the best thing that_  
_happened to me this year, and I’m not ready to give that up._  
_Maybe we should actually talk about what we’re both looking for._  
_Call me when you wake up.  I’ll buy you breakfast._  
_~Beka_

If only he’d pared it down to just the last two sentences.  Then he would have had the choice, at least, whether this, _now_ , was really the time to talk things out seriously. 

Boy, was he in for it.

_I kind of figured._

_Café Dima or Mallika’s?_

_You’re just going to brush  
that aside, huh?_

_It seems more like a_  
_conversation we should_  
_have in person…_

 _Mallika’s.  Red eye, lots_  
_of cream and sugar and_  
_an apricot-filled brioche_

 _I like how you just_  
_assume I’m going to_  
_bring it to you._

_Are you not?_

_No, I totally am._

_Coffee is going to_  
_destroy your stomach,_  
_are you sure you don’t_  
_want some peppermint_  
_tea instead?_

 _What are you, my_  
_mother?  I need_  
_stimulants._

_And make that two  
brioches._

The command came just in time for Otabek to order at the little café on the corner opposite Yuri’s building.  Mallika was out of apricot brioche and he wasn’t sure what his friend would want instead, so he panicked and bought an assortment.  He got the peppermint tea too, just so he could say _I told you so_ while he held Yuri’s hair back.  He balanced those with his own black coffee in a drink carrier in one hand, the other swinging a little brown bag heavy with pastries.

The building’s door code was saved into the notes app on his phone.  He let himself in and trudged up the stairs to Yuri’s studio. The pitiful sound of Yuri’s miserable retching was already filling the tiny apartment, tied together with exhausted moans and little involuntary sobs.  Abandoning the breakfast on the little dinette table, Otabek hurried to the bathroom where he found the lanky teen curled up on the tile, sweatpantsed and bare-chested, face pulled into a grimace behind his trembling hands.  His breaths fell out in shallow, wheezing sighs.

“I brought you coffee and pastries,” he deadpanned, swallowing down the urge to touch, to hold, to comfort in any way that could be misconstrued as anything other than purely platonic.

Well.  It wouldn’t really be misconstrued.  He wasn’t lying in the note when he said all those things about friendship.  He was just… omitting.  A lot.  Of feelings.  And he would continue to.  Because it wasn’t fair to Yuri, no matter how ready he felt he was.

Yuri opened his mouth to respond, but lurched forward instead, pulling himself back up as another wave seized his body, throwing a rude gesture back in the Kazakh’s direction as he threw up again.

Otabek chuckled.  “I’ll get you some water,” he said.

As he crossed into the kitchen, Yuri’s rasps of “don’t fucking watch me” and “what kind of sicko” followed him.  The blonde was propped against the doorway, clutching at his stomach with one hand and his temples with another.  The glowering flash of green eyes behind his long bangs was jarring – Otabek was used to guarded retorts and moody glares but those were all just a facet of Yuri’s personality.  This was different.  He couldn’t quite place a finger on it, but something in that look was more than just a façade.

 _I’m hurt too,_ he’d said.

Otabek prepared a glass of water and poured a little bit of the peppermint tea into a real mug before carrying both over to the big day bed.

“Come on, why don’t you drink something?” he offered, waving Yuri over to sit next to him.  Yuri dragged himself over and collapsed into his side, curling his legs up under himself, cheek pressed wearily into Otabek’s bicep.

“I’m an idiot,” he cried – actually _cried_ – and Otabek felt his stomach twisting into helpless knots.  “This is some self-destructive shit.  I should have known better.” He wrinkled his nose, resisting the tears that were already streaming silently down his cheeks.

“We’ve all gotten too drunk,” Otabek soothed, pushing the water into Yuri’s hands.  “If you have some water and get some more sleep, you’ll be fine by this evening.”

“I’ve been hungover before, dumbass,” the teen spat in between sips.  “I mean… just like… this.  Whole thing.  You.  Gimme that tea.”  They switched cups and Yuri held the mug up to his lips, both hands cupped around it for warmth.  He was a mess.  His eyeliner had smudged in five different directions and created the illusion of sunken, dead eyes instead of his usual bright, sharp ones. Otabek stood up, suddenly determined to find a washcloth.  “Wha- hey!  See?  Like that?  We just sat down together and you’re fuckin… you’re running away.”

“I’m getting you something,” Otabek muttered, aware that he was avoiding, but unable to stop himself.  Washcloths were in an impossibly small closet in the bathroom, along with towels and half-empty bottles of different perfumy soaps, probably each abandoned in turn when the next one was spotted in the store.  Otabek let the water run until he was sure it was hot, then tucked one of the cloths under the stream to soak while he rummaged through the medicine cabinet. 

He returned to the bed with the warm compress, a refilled water glass, and an effervescent acetaminophen tab he’d snagged from a box labeled in Italian.

Yuri looked up, wide-eyed, as if he hadn’t expected this kind of treatment. “Th-thanks,” he mumbled.  The bewilderment on his face melted into relief as he brought the warm cloth to his face, and he laid back onto a pile of stuffed animals with a _thwump_.  “Can we talk?  Is that okay?”

“We can talk.”

Silence hung between them for a moment, broken only by bright, sparkling fizz of the painkiller tab being dropped into the glass of water. Yuri let go of his breath in a long sigh that mimicked the sound of it.

“Why’d you kiss me after the GPF?” he asked.  For the first time that morning, the annoyance and anger were stripped from his voice.  This was a question in earnest. Otabek slipped off his boots and turned to sit cross-legged, facing him.  “Why’d you kiss me if you weren’t trying to date me?”

A wave of shame washed over Otabek and settled into his stomach, where it gurgled and turned without cease.  He hated that he had to make excuses for this.  If he could go back and do it over he would have restrained himself, taken his time, given Yuri the space and respect he deserved.

“I was drunk,” he mumbled, glad that Yuri had the compress over his eyes to block his view of his sheepish expression.  “And excited.  And I didn’t know when I was going to see you again.”

“So you didn’t mean it?”

Otabek sighed.  “Let me get my coffee.” When he returned, equipped with his drink and a croissant wrapped in a napkin to help keep the medicine down, Yuri was sitting up and eyeing him with quiet concern.  He took the glass and the pastry and dropped the wet rag onto Otabek’s lap.

_Spiteful bastard._

“Listen.” He took a slender, manicured hand in his and rubbed the palm gently with his thumb.  “I kissed you because I wanted to.  I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t mean it.  But I didn’t mean to get you mixed up in my feelings before you were ready.  Yura, you deserve better than that.” Fingers laced together.  Yuri squeezed his hand tight as he gulped down the painkiller, eyes squeezed shut against the bitter taste, and chased it with a mouthful of croissant.

“Fucking gross,” he muttered as he chewed.  “Let the record show that Otabek ‘I begged JJ to fuck me’ Altin isn’t a total slut after all.”  The croissant was gone in two more bites, squirreled away in Yuri’s pink-splotched cheeks.

Otabek eyed him warily, sipping his coffee. Those eyes still held some unclassified emotion, something intimidating beyond the tiredness and discomfort.

It looked an awful lot like hatred. Clearly it wasn’t, considering their fingers were entwined and their thighs pressed together and the younger’s head rested lightly on his shoulder. But something burned, shining and emerald, in his direction every time Yuri looked his way. It felt so important yet utterly unnamable.

“Is… is that a deal-breaker?” He asked, barely above a whisper, afraid to know the answer. “Because even if I were certain you were ready… I don’t… I don’t think…”

A hand at the back of his neck jerked him forward, bringing his train of thought to a screeching halt.

He thought at first Yuri was going to hit him, from the speed and intensity with which the Russian’s hand came towards him. But a moment later he felt soft lips connect with his, smooth and sweet from the buttery pastry, and Yuri’s fingers were tickling the short-clipped hairs at the back of his neck, and the realization flooded in that he knew exactly what the look in those green eyes was. He knew, and he felt it too, and he was terrified.

He didn’t need to ask. A moment later, it was confirmed, whispered in a breathy rasp in his ear.

“Beka, I’m in love with you.”

 

_Fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, a JJbek flashback will follow!
> 
> Otabek might not be a slut, but I sure am - for comments! Talk to me! Questions and critiques are always welcome, but mainly I just like to gush over poor Beka and his hopeless devotion.
> 
> If you haven't already, please go check out my other works - I am currently posting a Viktuuri angst fic that follows the husbands as they try to protect their grieving son (Yuri), and an opera singer AU that is basically just the show.
> 
> Plus I have some more lovely fluff and smut in there as well!  
> Thanks, babes!


	8. the best part of waking up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JJ wakes up in Otabek's bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a little bit of a different chapter to keep things interesting! I wanted a shift in perspective so this one's from JJ's POV - expect a little Yuri's POV too in the next chapter.
> 
> I am expecting three more Yuri chapters and two more JJ chapters.

2013, Toronto

 

JJ is in for it.

JJ is in some big fucking trouble, boy.

He wakes up to a fistful of tee shirt and the hot, sickening scent of last night, face pressed at an awkward angle into a pleasantly warm chest. The smell is a blend of his own rotten morning breath, and of sweat, and cologne, and something else – dizzying, but not altogether unpleasant. He breathes it in in long, indulgent sips, pressing his nose into the jersey, then his lips.

_You really fucking did it this time, JJ._

He’s been caught in a trap of his own design. He is right in the position he has been fighting to avoid, to run from, for months since this all started, and now that he’s here he’s all the more convinced that he was right in doing so. Nothing feels more dangerous in those first waking moments than the gentle press of Otabek’s sleeping body against his own. Nothing is more deadly than the arm slung haphazardly around JJ’s waist, holding him close. Except maybe the other arm, outstretched under him, the soft meat of Otabek’s relaxed bicep cushioning his head.

JJ just woke up in Otabek’s arms, and it is every bit as intoxicating as he feared it would be.

He never meant for it to go this far.  After that first night, after bombing the Jamfest and Beks not showing up to support him and high tensions with the band underneath all the celebration, JJ tried to go to his roommate for comfort and validation.  But _Drunk_ JJ crawled into Otabek’s space and into his bed for a different kind of comfort, one he knew Otabek would readily give, one he had offered not long before, and started something new and amazing and terrible between the two of them.

Strong arms close around him, pressing him closer, as Otabek shifts and settles around him with an unconscious moan.  It’s adorable.  God, it is so adorable. JJ’s mind is reeling in a way that makes him feel totally disconnected from his body, which can’t help but melt into the cuddle.

He knows what Otabek feels. He suspected it even back then, when he was caught up in those same arms, like a fly in a web, in the front stairs. And JJ had his own feelings by then too – what Otabek felt between them wasn’t a fluke. They work. They really work. When they’re together, JJ feels like he can relax for once. He doesn’t know if it’s a side effect of living together, or Beks’ quiet indifference whenever he does decide to put on a show, or the fact that he’s younger and a less-experienced skater. Maybe it’s that he understood JJ Style for what it was – the fan base and foundation for his skating career – from the start, and has never shown any judgement.  Whatever it is, JJ finds himself opening up more and more to his quiet Kazakh roommate, without fear of ridicule.  Without fear of being hurt.

Maybe because one of the first things he did when they met was ask for help on his quad sal. That takes guts in the competitive world. Otabek made it clear from the start that he was okay being vulnerable around JJ, and in doing so made it clear that it was okay to do the same.

“I used to mix music I love and nothing else, when I started out,” he once said, catching his breath against the boards at practice. “I would love to be able to do only that one day. But no one knows me from the next amateur DJ. Sometimes you have to sell out a little to make a name for yourself.”

JJ hopes Otabek knows how unbelievably cool he is. Even with how comfortable and open he feels around his friend, he’s not sure he could ever tell him so.

He definitely can’t tell him he loves him.  He can’t tell anyone.  Hell, he hasn’t been able to tell himself until now – _right now_ , surrounded by his warmth and his smell and the soft rise and fall of his chest.  It was so nice to be able to lie to himself, but he can’t anymore.

_Jean Jacques Leroy, this is your goddamn wake-up call._

It’s easy, here in bed, to imagine a reality in which he set himself up to make this work.  He never really meant to include “Good Catholic Boy” into his public image, but the fans ate it up. It’s not a _lie_ , per se (although he hasn’t been to church since the tour), as much as it is an exaggeration.  He _used to be_ a Good Catholic Boy.  He did the whole bit – CCD, communion, youth group, private school... When they’re kids, Good Catholic Boys are Destined For Great Things, or Such A Blessing To Your Parents, or Children Of God.  Once they hit college, Good Catholic Boys are like good pop idols – pure, and virtuous, and attractive, and available.

But now, outside these walls, and on every social media outlet besides his private Snapchat (because Good Catholic Boys don’t really party that hard), that’s who JJ is.  He has sponsorships resting on that image.  He has his relationship with his parents – both personal and professional – resting on that image. He’s already seen what it’s like to be gay and a Leroy – his cousin Karin took her wife’s last name and blocked everyone in the family on Facebook after her parents asked her to “be thoughtful and come to Christmas by yourself this year.”

He doesn’t think Mom and Pops, while staunch Catholics, are that severe. But he has never figured out how to find out.

You can’t just ask, “would you still love me if I were bisexual?” without outing yourself in the process, right?

JJ doesn’t believe his faith needs to be contingent on his sexuality. He doesn’t think a God worthy worshipping would make him with these feelings if it was a sin to have them. He doesn’t think the God he grew up loving would turn down someone who chose to follow Him for something that felt so inherent.

Sometimes he feels like God blessed him as bi so that he could be who he is and who his family wants him to be at the same time.

He does not feel like that right now, however. Right now, underneath the cozy and warm, underneath the right where I wanna be, JJ feels cursed, not chosen. The pressure is on for him to marry a girl someday. And here he is, letting himself develop feelings for the only man he’s ever kissed – and considering how nice it would be if he could wake up snuggled up next to him more than just this once.

“Myarm. Jean.”

JJ looks up to catch Otabek peering down, eyes still half-closed, before they start shuffling around one another to find a more comfortable position.  He lets the Kazakh turn over before curling tight around him, hooking one arm around his middle and the other under his head.

“Good morning,” Otabek hums, his voice deep and ragged from sleep. 

And JJ can’t find anything to say back.  Even “good morning” sounds personal and emotional and… And he knows he can’t let himself enjoy this now.  He wants to.  As the realization dawns on him, he tightens around Beks’ form in front of him, buring his face in soft, black hair, as if holding on tight enough will save him from what he knows he must do next.  If he thought it wouldn’t just drag him deeper and deeper into dangerous, inescapable territory, if he thought that he could get away with it, he’d stay late into the morning – maybe go for another round here on the bed, then another in the shower afterwards.  Maybe they would grab Tim Horton’s after and lay on the couch playing Mass Effect until it was time to hit the ice.

They might still do some of that anyway.  Might as well pull the bandage off quick.

It can’t exist outside of this apartment.  It can’t even exist outside of this room.

That would mean it was as real as it feels.

Ignoring the ache in his chest, the want deep in his abdomen, ignoring the gravity between his lips and the curve of Beks’ neck, he wriggles his arm out from underneath the younger man and almost eats shit trying to crawl over him to the edge of the bed.

Otabek catches his arm, sitting up and rubbing his eyes with this other hand.

_Shit…_

“Do you have to go?” he asks, his eyes burning copper in the morning light.  “It was nice… I didn’t expect you to-“  his voice trails off, his face falling with disappointment.  He lets go of JJ's arm and falls back onto his pillow.  “No.  No, go.”

“Beks, I’m sorry.  I-“

“Whatever.  I got the wrong idea.  Go.”

And JJ knows he has to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry!!


	9. your fault or mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri is getting the silent treatment from Otabek, and someone (rather ironically) walks in on him crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Yuri POV chapter? Yes please! A new character emerges? Yes please! Linked music? You betcha!

2016, St. Petersburg

 

Otabek isn’t answering his phone, and Yuri is considering throwing his into the Neva for all the trouble it’s giving him.

That dumbass. This is all his fault.

 

_This is all your  
fault, dumbass._

He’s a liar, just like Viktor is a liar, getting his hopes up and then disappearing off the face of the earth, leaving him to flounder and overanalyze and stew in his own anger.

It’s Otabek’s fault for getting close enough to let Yuri get attached. It’s his fault for admitting his own feelings before leaving.

“Yeah, I like you, but I’m going to keep lying to myself because of some stupid moral hang-up I don't even really believe in. I’m doing this with your best interest in mind whether you like it or not. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

 _Et cetera, ad nauseum_. Yuri kicks the chain-link fence beside him as he walks.

Fucker.

If Beka has his best interest in mind, he wouldn’t have kissed him in the first place.

That kiss was an empty promise.

The air is balmy and damp, even with the sun hanging high overhead, and even with no clouds in the sky, everything is washed in a dizzying summer haze that’s sticky on Yuri’s skin and heavy in his lungs. He needs some ice therapy, time alone to just express himself through his art, working through these stupid, pesky feelings Beka left him with. No one’s slotted to use the rink for another three hours. His emotional detox should go unseen. Mila wouldn’t let him hear the end of If if she found him keyed up and pining over a guy. The last thing he needs, when Otabek is training in the same facility, is that old hag running her mouth about “Yura’s little crush” to every other skater she sees.

Yuri wishes he had just a little crush. Viktor was just a little crush. And let’s be real, who has stepped foot in the training facility without falling just a little for that big, obnoxious, beautiful man-child? As Georgi put it, “Your Viktor crush is a rite of passage for the Russian skating team.”

Katsudon was just a little crush. His skating idol. Everyone has one. It took all of one week of living with him to completely extinguish that flame for good. The real-life Yuuri is frustratingly dense – he didn’t realize Viktor’s feelings for him until the old man literally tackle-kissed him on public television.

Neither of those two chucklefucks have an ounce of cool in them, even though the public seems to think so. They’re just big dorks with frankly obscene levels of thirst and no consideration for the poor people who have to endure their excessive public displays of affection.

_Fucking disgusting._

He swipes his key card and shoves his way through the glass double doors of the skating complex.

The entire crux of his problem, he thinks, is the way everyone continues to infantilize him like he’s still some little kid who needs to be protected.  Yakov doesn’t trust him enough to let him choreograph his own pieces, even though he _knows_ Viktor was doing his own before he even made it into seniors.  Viktor and Yuuri hover over him like they’re his goddamn parents or something, even though neither of them are anywhere close to having their shit together.  Huge Gay Disasters, both of them.  They’re a hurricane of miscommunication and jumping to conclusions and panic and tears… hell, _he_ spends more time parenting _them_ than the other way around!

The last person he ever expected to look down on him was Otabek.  When they first met, he treated Yuri like a person, like an equal, through everything.  Or so he thought.  Now that he thinks back, little things start creeping back into his memory, like how Beka never did tell him he’s a goddamn _DJ_ , for fuck’s sake, and he finds shows in the cities he visits for skating. And he’s no joke – he’s _good_ , good enough to brag without seeming cocky.  Maybe it was naïve to assume he was just being humble.  Maybe he intentionally kept quiet about his side gig in the interest of keeping Yuri away from the Barcelona club scene, all too aware that with how well they were getting along, he’d definitely want to come and see him.

Like the little things he says, like “I’m sure your feelings are real, but…” as if Yuri's age invalidates his attraction or something. 

 _Stupid fucking Beka_.  He screwed everything up, after the exhibition skate, after the banquet, in the quiet stillness of the empty banquet hall where they stayed and talked until long after the last few people trickled out into the Barcelona night.

In fact, he always seemed interested, right up until the moment Yuri tried to make a move of his own.  It doesn’t make any sense; that idiot is nothing if not totally considerate of the feelings of those around him – he always puts others before himself.  So why would he do something so cruel?

The thing with Beka is that he’s so effortlessly _cool_ , not just in aesthetic but in a way that permeates everything he does. He’s laid-back without being gutless. He doesn’t care about clothes or fashion, but his modest, practical clothing choices are unrivaled in terms of style.

(It pains Yuri to think about this for too long, considering how much time and money he’s put into curating the perfect wardrobe.)

Yuri probably could stand to stretch more, but he’s too eager to get out there on the fresh, smooth ice. He makes quick but thorough work of lacing up his skates.

Otabek is kind, and caring, and just cynical enough to actually enjoy listening to Yuri bitch, and he’s quiet, which is so refreshing after hours upon chatty hours on the ice with the Boner Squad that is his skating family.

Fuck, he’s Yuri’s best friend. And they’ve only known each other six months or so.

Is it possible Yuri fucked it up?

Did he throw away the perfect friendship just to get another kiss?

After Otabek said in no uncertain terms that he’s not ready?

 _Shit._ He hooks up to the sound system and blasts his angst playlist, then glides out onto the ice.

Free-form skate is his favorite outlet, especially with the rink’s state-of-the-art sound system.  The rapid pulse of the double bass drum relents in the pit of his stomach as he moves. He relinquishes himself to the music, letting it drag him from one end of the rink to the other, accepting the impulses it offers him, twisting and sweeping in fidelity to the melody line.

Now he’s mad at himself.  Mad for getting too drunk, mad for that stupid flirtatious move he tried that triggered all of this, mad for needing – and wanting – to be taken care of the next morning.

 _Oh my god, I fucked it up_. _This is all my fault.  I am such a dumbass._

He loses his balance in the middle of a half biellmann and eats ice as his foot slips out in front of him.  Tears prick his eyes, and he is too tired to fight them back at this point.  He doesn’t know how long he’s been skating, but suddenly he’s very aware that he’s close to his limit.  The ice stings beneath him.  He presses his palms over his eyes, too fed up to move, watching the stars swirl erratic figures in front of his eyelids.  The drums continue to beat against his sternum.

_“Yurio!”_

A scrape of skates, and suddenly there are hands on him, a voice demanding his attention, _someone saw_.

 _Fuck_.

“Yurio, are you okay?”

He forgot he’s not the only one who seeks refuge in unclaimed rink time. 

“Leave me alone, Katsudon,” he growls, rolling to face away from the older man, hoping that in his cautious appraisal Yuuri hasn’t caught sight of his tear-stained cheeks.

“Did you hit your head?” Calm concern lingers in the gentle rhythm of Yuuri’s voice. _So goddamn annoying!_ Agitation shoots through Yuri’s nerves like white-hot light, a malicious and restless energy threatening to burst through at his joints. Was that the fall? He vaguely suspects that energy has been there since before he even put on his skates.

“No, okay?” he spits, slamming his fist against the cold, hard ice, using the motion to push himself up to his knees.  “I’m fine! Fuck!” 

He’s already past his breaking point as he stands and pushes off toward the gate, and with Yuuri trailing close behind him he is certain he’s about to lose his shit.

“Yurio…”

What a deceptively soft voice for someone who could be heard screaming Viktor’s name three hotel rooms down at Worlds.

“Go ahead, take the ice,” Yuri says through clenched teeth, throwing himself down on the bench.  “I’m done.”

“Do you want to talk?”  Oh God, he’s putting on his skate guards, he’s going to come sit down and demand attention and the last thing Yuri wants to do is fucking _talk_ , and he employs some of his choicest vocabulary to tell the Japanese man so. 

“You wouldn’t fucking _know_ , Pork Chop, you never had to fight for the attention a day in your life!  Your boyfriend chased you halfway across the world and threw himself naked at you ever chance he got!”

Yuuri sits down anyway despite his protests, face calm and concerted as he appraises his rinkmate’s situation.  The slightest smile touches his lips, patient and understanding.  Shit if this guy doesn’t know the exact formula for bringing Yuri’s guard down. 

_He’s going to make an amazing mother, someday._

Before he knows it, he’s spilled it all out on the bench between himself and Yuuri – Barcelona, the hours-long skype calls, the night of drinking turned sour, and on top of it all, the twisting maelstrom of confusing emotions that have permeated all of it – through a mix of angry tears and free-flowing curses and stewing frustration.

He tells Yuuri everything, from his sinking suspicion that Otabek is still totally hung up on that royal Canadian idiot to the ever-mounting guilt beating him in the chest from stealing a kiss he’s now certain Otabek didn’t want – or didn’t want to want.

He spends way too much time waxing poetic on every stupid perfect thing about the Kazakh, then way longer lamenting the fact that he totally proposed the drinking game to try to move things further in their relationship, ultimately grinding even their most platonic interactions to a halt.

Yuuri listens in contemplative silence as he laces up his skates until his younger namesake is finished. He even thinks on it for a few moments before speaking, fingers steepled over his lips, as though he’s handling the most sensitive international secrets.

“…you’ve spoken to him since that day, right?” He asks, eyebrow quirked up.

 “He won’t answer me.”

“Have you said anything worth answering?”

_No. I’ve mainly yelled at him._

“Of course I have!”

Yuuri is fast, even with skate guards on. He’s agile, able to hop from one foot to another and have both guards off in seconds. He’s closer to the rink than Yuri, and he’s well aware the teen doesn’t have his skates on anymore. Profanities echo throughout the complex in a mix of Russian, English, and Japanese as the Ace glides silently over to the sound system, scoops up the phone in the tiger-print case, and loops back around into the middle of the ice.

“You don’t know my passcode,” Yuri shouts, practically gripping indents in the boards, desperately hoping he’s right.

Yuuri doesn’t miss a beat, doesn’t even look up as he recites the numerical date of his own birthday, unable to conceal the mirth in his grin.

“Fanboys think alike, koneko-chan,” he teases, stretching back into a layback Ina Bauer as he scrolls.

The heat is rising in Yuri’s face. He really thought he wasn’t _that_ transparent.  God, he misses shy Yuuri.

“Just… don’t go too far back,” he pleads. Yuuri’s glide slows to a standstill as he reads, face pulling into a dissatisfied grimace.

“Yurio, I’m disappointed,” he tuts, and when Yuri thinks about the last few texts he’s sent, he understands why.

_Can you please  
 just talk to me?_

_Fine, whatever, be  
 immature, I guess._

_Fucking shit._

_This sucks. What  
did I even do?_

_Message received,  
asshole._

_This is all your  
fault, dumbass._

“Give. Him. Space.” Yuuri practically throws the phone at him. “After how he opened up to you? You owe him an apology, and then you owe him the space and time he needs to accept it.”

The “I’m not a kid, don’t fucking scold me like one” burns hot on Yuri’s tongue, ready to burst out at any moment, but he manages to bite it back behind an embarrassed scowl. He knows he should be ashamed. He’s been less than compassionate with Beka about this, and he definitely hasn’t been compassionate with himself.

The [music](https://youtu.be/zK7tL0-3Zu0) that plays over the sound system when Yuuri hooks up is artery-clogging and saccharine and he’s sure he’d have something to say about it if he didn’t think the other skater totally noticed he definitely has [Babymetal](https://youtu.be/cK3NMZAUKGw) on a playlist entitled _Angst_ , and he was definitely crying to it.

He decides to suck it up. 

 _Actually, I’ve kind_  
of been like incredibly  
selfish, so… I’m sorry.

_I don’t want to lose  
your friendship._

_So whenever you’re_  
ready, let’s maybe  
talk boundaries.

_I miss you._

_As a friend._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> K is sleepy. I really loved writing this chapter, so I hope you enjoyed reading it!! 
> 
> Next chapter we’re going back to Beka’s POV to deal with our unresolved JJ drama.
> 
> Thoughts on how things are going so far? Comments, kudos, and love are appreciated!
> 
> Keep an eye out for a new chapter of Art Song and Aria next!


	10. Burned is the House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Fuck off.”
> 
> “Otabek, please!”
> 
> He’d had just about enough. He was done playing along with JJ’s games, shaping his world to fit the way JJ moved. He spun on his heel, ripping out his headphones as he faced him, too aware of the heat rising in his face.
> 
> "Otabek, please, nothing," he spat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whooo!! It's been a minute! Sorry for the long wait; summer is supposed to be a break but instead I'm working three jobs and taking a class and even though I put one of my fics on hiatus to keep up with the workload I immediately started ANOTHER one because... I just gotta. No self control. Anyway, I have been listening to a lot of Alkaline Trio, so Otabek has also been listening to a lot of Alkaline Trio. 
> 
> Songs are linked!

2014, Toronto

 

Otabek stepped out into the frigid night air outside his apartment, peeling back the hoods from his fingerless gloves just fast enough to get his cigarette lit before tucking his fingers away again.  The knitted fabric didn’t do much to keep them warm in the – God, the _January_ chill,  but it was better than having them exposed to the elements.

He needed to escape.  Not his room, not even his noise-canceling headphones were enough to distract him from the _Happy New Years_ sex happening right next door.  He thought about taking a walk to pass the time, but the high apartment building walls were doing a fairly good job at shielding him from the wind and snow, so he decided to stay put.  Alkaline Trio blared through his headphones, music bitter and drunk enough to capture his mood.  He’d called it months ago.  Living with JJ was hell.

All he had to do was finish out the season; if he could place in Worlds then he had a definite chance of being able to return to Almaty to train.  Now, more than ever, Otabek was the worst kind of homesick.

It was a New Year, and it was time to cut the bullshit.  Tonight’s party had only reinforced that belief.  When he’d suggested that it might be nice to stay in for New Years rather than hopping from party to party, Otabek hadn’t realized that he’d proposed a three-person celebration: him, JJ, and Bella.  He’d called it months ago.  Living with JJ was hell.

He didn’t hate Bella.  He didn’t even dislike her.  But that didn’t mean he liked her.  No one could make him like her.  The sheer ambivalence with which he regarded “JJBella” was astounding.  He had to remind himself occasionally that he hadn’t lost JJ to her, because JJ had never really been his, but at the same time, that was what made not caring so easy.  All JJ had ever given him was ass.  He could get ass anywhere.  He could not hate Bella, because Bella had taken nothing from him, but he couldn’t like her either, because at the end of the day, she still had JJ.

Cutting the bullshit was going to have to mean finding a way to stop lying to himself.  Fuck.

Otabek’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he snaked a single digit from his mittens to tap out his passcode.

_Beckyyy_

_You awake?_

“Godfuckingdamnit,” he hissed, almost spitting out his cigarette in the process.  He locked his phone and shoved it back into his pockets.  No, no JJ tonight.  He was done thinking about his roommate until they inevitably ran into each other the next day. 

 _“[This is getting over you](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PNwe9EUs7yo),”_ his headphones roared.  He shut his eyes, drowning in the music, letting the cold and the nicotine and the last of his champagne buzz numb him from his annoyance.  It was only annoyance, anyway.  Not jealousy or anything like that.  He was just peeved at having been the third wheel all night.  Anyone would be.  He could kick himself for not thinking it through.

The door of the complex swung open, drowning Otabek in that sickening green-yellow light from the stairwell, and JJ stepped out, his own earbuds in, occupied with whatever was on his phone.  Otabek shifted a little, facing away from him.  He wasn’t going to ignore the Canadian, but he wasn’t about to leap into a conversation, either.

The hall light dimmed again and the door clicked shut as Otabek’s phone switched over to the next song.

_“[It’s like we both had just arrived here, like we’d just stepped off a plane in a new town…”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_lnv2LbaiKM)_

JJ sauntered into his line of sight, looking wrecked and exhausted as he sparked his own cigarette.  When it was lit, he took half a step towards Otabek, who tried to be as natural as possible in backing up.

“I thought you quit smoking,” Otabek deadpanned, focusing his gaze somewhere on the ground between them.

“What?”  JJ said, or he assumed that’s what he said.  He couldn’t hear over his music.  JJ mouthed something else in response.

“What?”  Otabek took out one earbud, refusing to abandon his music altogether.

JJ laughed, taking out one ear of his own.  “I said, all resolutions start after I wake up.”

“That’s the spirit,” Otabek hummed.

_“But we can never come back here again, we can only hope to forget.”_

The two stood in silence for a while.  They’d stood together in this spot so many times before, on earbud in, although in the past they’d be leaning on one another, sharing the same music, bullshitting and laughing with ease.

Things were considerably more tense tonight.

“Bella’s asleep,” JJ blurted suddenly.  “I was too drunk, I couldn’t—“

 _“Do. Not,”_ Otabek warned.  “Not interested in details.”

“I really like her, Beks,” JJ said, and if Otabek had dropped the stubbornness for half a moment and looked up, he’d see just how his roommate melted into that statement, how the pink that nipped at his cheekbones and nose deepened and his features softened.

Instead, he relented his gaze against the cold concrete and grumbled, “Love her?”

“I might, yeah.”

“Mmm.”

Another silence hung between them – or half, silence, as Dan Andriano was still lamenting in his left ear.

_“If you cry me a river you can baptize me in, I’ll say all right, that’s it, yeah, I’ve fucking seen everything...”_

“Beks…” JJ mumbled, taking another step closer.  Otabek backed into the wall. 

“…Jean.”

“I, uh.  I just wanted to make sure we were okay.”  JJ did look up then, long enough to see eyebrows arched upward above concerned gray eyes.  God, why did that boy have to have moons in his eyes?

“Mmm.”

JJ shifted uncomfortably, accidentally crushing his cigarette as he grasped for it, dropping it with a hiss and shaking his burned hand.  “Shit,” he spat, reaching into his pocket for another cigarette.

JJ was drunk.  Otabek had had just about enough of drunk JJ.  Sober JJ never barged into his room, begging to get plowed, purring stupid little nothings that were just that – stupid and nothing.  Drunk JJ did and said things that Sober JJ didn’t mean.  Drunk JJ took full advantage of Otabek’s feelings.  At least Sober JJ had the decency to ignore them.

“I’m fine,” Otabek muttered, watching JJ attempt to spark his lighter with numb fingers.  He spat out the butt of his own cigarette and immediately grabbed for another one, wriggling a few fingers free for minimal contact with the frigid air, lighting it quickly before shoving his hands in his pocket with the lighter.

“Aw c’mon, dude,” JJ whined.  “Here, at least buttfuck me.”

Otabek choked. “W-what??”

Snickering, JJ snatched the cigarette from his mouth and used its glowing tip to light his own before returning it to him.

“That’s disgusting,” Otabek protested, annoyed at the little brush of JJ’s fingertip against his lips. “Seriously.  Never say that to me again.”

JJ raised his eyebrows suggestively.  “Never?”

“Never.”

Silence.

_“You were the first real choice I would make, but we all make mistakes, so…”_

“Listen, Beks…”. JJ took another step into Otabek’s space, this time leaving no room to retreat.  Otabek inhaled sharply through his nose and felt the cold air pass down through his sinuses.  It stung like hell.

“Jean…” he pleaded.

“We never really did get closure, you know, between us,” JJ said.  Otabek struggled not to meet his eyes lest he be met with black pupils blown wide against silver-gray moons.  The Canadian was too close; it was dangerous territory.  JJ rested a hand on his shoulder.  “I’m… sorry.  I was kind of an ass to you.”

“Don’t.”  Otabek glanced around, looking for anything to focus on other than JJ.  He couldn’t do this right now.  This was _not_ where he wanted tonight to go.

JJ did not back off.  “I’m serious,” he said.  “I wasn’t being honest with myself and I wasn’t being honest with you.  You gave so much and I was… _fuck._ ”

And Otabek should not have looked up at him in that moment, because the sight of JJ blinking back real, honest-to-goodness tears was not something he was mentally prepared for.  He squeezed his own eyes shut, wishing he could go back to five minutes ago when he was numb, wishing he could un-hear just about everything JJ had said so far.

“I was too scared to love you.  And it sucks, because I really did.  So… I’m s—“

Otabek did not want to hear anymore.  He shoved past JJ and opted to take that walk he’d been considering.  Right earbud back in place, he prepared to plunge back into numbness, but somehow the sound of JJ trotting behind him cut through the whine of guitars.

“Beks, wait,” he heard faintly, underneath _“[Blue in the Face”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0xl0EjR-PkA)._

“Fuck off.”

“Otabek, please!”

He’d had just about enough.  He was done playing along with JJ’s games, shaping his world to fit the way JJ moved.  He spun on his heel, ripping out his headphones as he faced him, too aware of the heat rising in his face.

“Otababek, please, nothing,” he spat.  “I am finished.  It was fine when I thought it was nothing but… _fuck!”_ He kicked at the ground, tears pricking his eyes.  He would not cry.  Not like this, not in front of him.  “I can’t believe, after I begged for you, that you would…. It’s not fair.”

JJ did not share Otabek’s resolve.  Tears welled up in his eyes, threatening to pour down at any moment.  “Do you know how hard it’s been for me to admit that?” He asked, strained, trying to keep everything from spilling out.  “Do you know how long I’ve been hiding from… _that?”_

“So you’re ashamed.”

“No!  I just—“

Otabek held up a hand, stopping him.  “I opened up to you.  You were, and still are, all I have here.  If you were never going to return my feelings you had every opportunity to turn me down, but instead, you led me on for months, feeding the fire but never reciprocating.  And now I know you weren’t just being a tease, you were just lying.  To yourself, to me, to everyone.  Way to go.  You’re a fucking asshole, Jean.  I’m glad, now that you’re with her, you feel comfortable enough to tell me these things.  Good for you.  That’s some fucking growth.”

JJ shrunk, his eyes turned down.  After a few moments, Otabek huffed, flicking his cigarette to the ground.

“Look for a new roommate, Jean.  I was going to wait until Worlds to decide, but it’s settled.  Whether I place or not, I’m going back to Almaty.”

“Beks, no…” JJ’s tears came in earnest now, spilling down his cheeks in streams, freezing bright pink against his skin.

“Too late, Jean.  If it’s worth anything, I don’t hate her.  She’s good for you.  You’re probably better off.”

“Otabek, let’s at least talk about it, please!”

“Fuck off.  Don’t wait up.”

The air was frigid, and Otabek was grateful to have Alkaline Trio roaring in his ears once more.  He pulled his coat tighter around himself, turning away from the apartment and out into the night.  He had no clue where he was going, but he needed to give himself enough time to be certain JJ was asleep before he came back.

[“And if it’s okay, I’ll just grab my shit and leave...”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u1fEWzG0nZc)

When he was certain he was out of sight and out of earshot, he broke, letting his own tears fall freely.  _Happy fucking New Year._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like in the past I promised fluff. Whoops. I lied my face off. No fluff, only angst for everyone always! *evil laugh*
> 
> Thank you sooo much for sticking with me and please be patient as I balance out my next Yuri chapter with the rest of my workload! Only three chapters left!


	11. catharsis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Otabek was so angry at himself. Angry enough to hate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heh heh this didn't upload correctly the first time, enjoy for real this time!! ^^;

_ 2016, St. Petersburg _

 

_I miss you._

_As a friend._

 

 

The texts Otabek had received from Yuri two days ago blinked up at him innocently as though nothing was wrong.  As though two days ago was a fine enough amount of time in between correspondence.  As though two whole days without even so much as a “fuck you” for good measure didn’t imply something was incredibly, incredibly wrong.

He rubbed his temples and tried his best not to think about smoking.  Viktor wouldn’t coach him until he quit, and although Katsuki assured him that it was for the best and Viktor had done the same with him and his dietary issues, and although he knew it was a long time coming and his body would thank him for it in the long run, his head was pounding and he couldn’t calm his stupid nerves over _two whole days_ of radio silence.

To be fair, he hadn’t responded yet or anything, but that didn’t quell the disappointment that burned in his throat. 

The truth was, he didn’t want Yuri to see him like this.  He’d done… _something_ to Otabek’s constitution with that surprise kiss the morning after their night of drinking and diving into his past, and the very _thought_ of looking him in the face made Otabek want to hurl.

_“Beka, I’m in love with you.”_

_Fuck._

Wasn’t that exactly what he’d wanted to hear?  Wasn’t that all he’d ever wanted to hear?  The reason he’d picked up and hauled his ass out of Canada before the skating season was even over?  He’d spent so many months taking what he could get while he waited for an “I love you” that didn’t exist that his anticipation and repeated letdowns settled into a burning resentment at his very core, a bitter, cynical enmity, and he was starting to realize more and more that the center of his grudge was not JJ – had never been JJ – it was himself.

Otabek was so angry at himself.  Angry enough to hate.

He was angry that he managed not once, but twice, to ruin an awesome friendship by catching feelings.  Angry that the first time he couldn’t see past his own wants, even after he knew his feelings would not be reciprocated and pushed and pushed until everything went sour.

Sometimes it’s impossible to convince himself that he didn’t personally push JJ away. 

After all, he had.  When JJ reached out and apologized, he was so lost over his own feelings that he ran. 

But not before being cruel and letting the bad end of a bad champagne buzz do the talking for him.

Words like “stupid” and “terrible” and “unlovable” had been dancing mirthlessly around in his head for months, hiding out behind more pressing thoughts until those quiet moments when there was nothing to distract him, then emerging and wreaking havoc on his rational side.  Normally he’d use nicotine and music to beat them back, or dull their impact at least, until he could retreat into sleep or work or music or _anything_.

But all of that was beside the matter at hand.  Yuri had said to him what he’d started to believe he’d never hear… and in response, Otabek had run away yet again.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard on his screen as he considered what he might say in response to what was admittedly the most patient and rational way Yuri could have responded to his current inability to communicate.  “Thanks” would sound so insincere, even though he meant it, but “Thanks, that really means a lot to me” sounded so personal and vulnerable and he just wasn’t sure he was there yet.  There was no emoji that captured “that works but I really do want to be more than friends” or “I’m secretly terrified of letting you in even though this is the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

He tapped the “back” button angrily and texted Viktor to make sure they would have privacy at their lesson that afternoon.  He got his confirmation almost instantly, and without even thinking he asked if there was anything preventing him from coming now.

Skating meant relieving his frantic, desperate impulse to crawl out of his skin, distracting himself from the shame and embarrassment and fear and the sickening lack of nicotine in his bloodstream.

Yuuri had ice time right up until Otabek’s, but Viktor assured him he was welcome to come and watch and talk.  He was out the door in an instant, setting out on a brisk jog to the sports training complex before any more negative thoughts could overtake him.

 

* * *

 

 

If Viktor was proud of him for not smoking, he didn’t show it.  Concern pulled at the corners of his lips as Otabek stretched against the boards.  Otabek had never found him that intimidating as a competitor; by the time they were actually competing against each other, Viktor had already been a four-time world champion.  He never even really seemed like competition.  It was just assumed he would take gold, and everyone else competed to share the podium with him.

But Coach Viktor Nikiforov was a horse of a different color.  He wore his distaste on his sleeve, and something about Otabek was crawling around under his skin today.  Wherever he stood, Otabek could feel the piercing scrutiny of those ice-blue eyes on his back, searching him for information without actually having to ask.

As if asking would really get him to divulge his feelings for Yuri.  Viktor was so protective of his younger compatriot.  He’d be on the receiving end of a shovel talk faster than he could say “pirozki.”

He did his best to ignore Viktor’s piqued interest, instead [letting the music blast in his earbuds](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KAljnUezZFk) while he stretched his hips and trying to lose himself in the wailing guitars.  He was practiced in keeping his emotions under wraps, hiding them behind witticisms and scowls and cigarette breaks to keep from having to talk about them.

The only time he ever felt like he could was with Yuri – even JJ never really heard him.

Katsuki spilled out on the floor next to him as he finished up his stretches, drenched in sweat and focusing his breathing as his heartrate slowed from what looked like a rather intense practice session.  He greeted Otabek with an exhausted smile and started his own cooldown stretches while Viktor went over his notes.

“How are you doing today, Otabek?” Yuuri asked underneath the bass pounding in Otabek’s earbuds.  He grunted out a noncommittal response and switched stretches, reaching forward into a spread eagle and trying as best he could to relax into the stretch that pulled at his back and hamstrings.

“I haven’t heard from Yurio–uh, Yuri–lately, how has he been?”

The question was innocent enough, just like everything non-Viktor related that Katsuki said and did, and he wondered for just a moment whether Yuri was talking about him–about what had happened–behind his back. 

“I don’t know,” he mumbled, sinking lower into the stretch on his exhale.  “I haven’t heard from him either.”

“Oh,” Yuuri responded quietly.  “I thought, since you two are friends.  Anyway, check in with him okay? He seems to listen to you more than either of us.”

“Yeah… Okay.”

He shot a cautious glance over at the Japanese skater stretching opposite him, half-expecting to be met with the same astringent stare that his fiancé had been giving him since he arrived.  He was relieved to find Katsuki focusing on his own stretches instead of waiting expectantly for a response.

Still, the request only added on to the guilt churning away in his stomach.

“Otabek.  You’re up,” Viktor called from the boards.  “Come lace up, let’s talk for a moment.”

He could feel the appraising stare against his back.  He mumbled a goodbye to Katsuki before making his way over to the bench to put on his skates.

“You’re skulking,” Viktor frowned as he approached.  “What’s the matter?”

“Skulking?” Otabek asked vaguely, keeping his eyes on what he was doing.

“You look like shit,” Viktor clarified.  “Is this just from quitting?  Or is there something else going on?”

“Quitting isn’t exactly helping,” Otabek admitted.

“So there _is_ something else.”

“Look,” Otabek said, finally chancing to look his coach in the eyes.  Viktor’s lips were pressed thin, a gloved finger tapping against them as he studied his student.  “I… yeah, I’m going through some shit.  I was kind of hoping I could just skate through it?  Get it all out on the ice?  That kind of thing?”

“Are you taking my coaching seriously?” Viktor asked, his expression stony and unchanging.  Otabek wished he was in any position to escape that look of calculating concern.

“Y–yes?”

“Certainly your previous coaches expected you to leave your shit at the door when you walked in to practice,” the older man continued as Otabek tried to parse _how_ exactly he managed to walk into a lecture.

“Yes…”

“You’re not here to free skate, Otabek, you’re here to do work.”

“I thought, you know, the exertion… might be cathartic?” Otabek mumbled, undoing the last two rows of laces and tying them up again, tighter this time.

“Cathartic?” Viktor snapped.  “You thought you could come here to ‘skate it out’?”  He laughs, a deep, humorless rumble that resonates in the pit of Otabek’s stomach.  “Listen.  You’re right.  Skating is an art, and with artistic expression comes an outpouring of emotion.  It’s easy to get lost in that part.  But this is also a _sport_ , and you will get nowhere with art if you do not have your technical components down–perfect, even.  Anything otherwise leads to low scores if you’re lucky, severe injury if you aren’t.  Do you understand me?”

Otabek could feel the tears stinging behind his eyes, threatening to spill out at any second, and for a few moments all he could do was stare down at his boots, swallowing them back and trying to accept the criticism with an ounce of grace. 

Maybe Viktor was right, no matter how badly Otabek stubbornly wanted him to be overplaying the situation.  After all, how else was he supposed to escape the crushing reality of his own stupid emotions if he was trying to skate through them?

“Yes sir,” he muttered, eyes still on the floor.  Viktor nearly choked on his coffee.

“Oh my god, please don’t call me sir, only Y–“

“Viktor!” came a mortified cry from the mats.  “Jesus!”

“Uhh… Go take two laps around the building and clear your head,“ Viktor muttered quickly.  “Wait!  Your skates.  Uh, shit.  Okay, just finish up and work your edges until I tell you to stop.”

As Otabek stepped onto the ice, he could hear his coach being torn a new one by his only other student.  His repeated apologies echoing through the empty rink actually eased a little bit of the tension in Otabek’s chest as he turned his focus toward his technique.  Viktor–competitor Viktor, coach Viktor, or, the most intimidating of them all, self-proclaimed-parent-of-Yuri-Plisetsky Viktor–was just a person, after all.  And Katsuki was just a person, enigmatic and difficult to read as he was.  Otabek took comfort in remembering how pathetic and sloppy drunk they’d been in Japan earlier that summer, twin hurricanes of abandonment issues and insecurity and raging hormones.  Somehow, Yuri looked up to them, and somehow, it made sense to Otabek.

Underneath the sordid affair that had Viktor leaving the ice under the pretense of coaching–seriously, who actually believed that?–and their relentlessly sappy displays of affection, “Viktuuri” were such a dynamic pair not because of their sexual compatibility or their mutual hopeless romanticism.  They worked because they were such good friends.  It was obvious.  They didn’t just love each other, they _liked_ each other.

If Otabek thought about it too long, he’d probably be sick.

Viktor returned to the boards a little more flustered than before, but he seemed past his need to chastise Otabek any further.  They spent what felt like ages working the basics, Otabek’s blades barely leaving the ice, before Viktor decided he was ready to start working jumps. 

He had to stop a few times to cough up mucus–his new favorite pastime as of late, his lungs finally deeming it safe to expel all the garbage he’d been filling them with the past few years–but Viktor never faulted him for it, waiting patiently on the ice until Otabek was ready to come back.

By the end of his practice slot, Otabek actually felt really good.  He was still anxious about the situation with Yuri, still emotionally raw from everything that had been dug up in the past week, but the endorphins had kicked in and he wasn’t feeling it so much in his entire body anymore.  His head was a little clearer.  That underlying burn of hatred had subsided for now.

He listened intently as Viktor listed his personal requirements for program music, shuffling through packets and throwing them one by one down on the bench.  Otabek nodded his understanding with each point, reserving a few ideas of mixes he’d already made in the back of his head.

“…personally really like your dance style and want to explore it further in your choreography, but under Yakov’s insistence you have ballet with Lilia two days a week.  You can sign up for your slots on the bulletin board in the break room.”

“Okay.”  Otabek wiped down his blades and his boots a second time to make sure they were completely dry.  “Yeah, I can…”

“And Otabek…”  Viktor’s tone grew darker so suddenly that it had Otabek’s attention in an instant.  He snapped his eyes up to see that scouring gaze from earlier back in place.

_Shit._

“ _Please_ text Yurio back,” Viktor groaned.  “He’s becoming unbearable.”

“W-what?”

_That motherfucker knew the whole time._

“I’m serious!” Viktor sat down next to him and started to attend to his own skates.  “He came to my apartment to complain like two days ago and he hasn’t left since.  _He brought his cat_ , Otabek, I’m allergic!”

… _This was the opposite of a shovel talk though?_   The thought of Yuri setting up camp in Viktor’s life was actually pretty amusing.  It was the kind of thing they’d have a blast talking about, making fun of Viktor’s perfectionism and inability to deal with his itching sinuses.

“I… I don’t… Okay?”

Viktor’s seriousness broke once more and the laugh that escaped his chest was breathy and exasperated, more like a sigh than anything.  “Look, I’m not going to get involved.  Yurio would never let me, anyway.  But it seems like he’s really trying to do the right thing.  He backed off to give you time and space, and I’m not saying to rush into anything you’re not ready for but at least let him know you’re okay.  He’d never show it but he actually worries a lot.”

_He knew the whole time??_

“O–okay.”

 

  _I miss you._

_As a friend._

_That actually means  
a lot, Yura._

_Sorry I’ve been so_  
distant. I miss you  
too.

_So do you wanna be  
my friend or not?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!!  
>  Is this an end to all the angst?  
> (probably not but we can always hope!)  
> !!!!!!


	12. Mutiny Below

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> God, he still wasn’t over JJ.  
> And now JJ was going to marry the lipstick girl.  
> And if Otabek accepted that, he’d be accepting a Concrete, Final, Definite End.  
> That was it.  
> “Dude. Otabek. You okay?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am just going to preface this chapter by saying that Otabek is an unreliable narrator and JJ and Bella are probably in an open relationship. For all intents and purposes because I tried but I can't make myself believe JJ would cheat on anyone, especially Bella.

Barcelona, 2015

Otabek should have been looking forward to this. 

Otabek should have been ecstatic about this.

He should have his mind on the events of the upcoming week, and on his own work, and on nothing else except the fact that for the second time in two years, he made it to the Grand Prix Finale. 

He definitely should not have been focused on JJ.

But then again, there JJ was, not ten feet away in the hotel lobby, talking shit on their competitors before the competition had even begun.

Not only that, he’d apparently set his sights on the Russian kid from Yakov’s summer intensive.  (And shit, he’d really seemed like a kid the last time Otabek had seen him, but the couple of years it’d been since then had certainly treated him well…) 

Leave it to JJ to pick on the youngest of the group.

“Otabek! Come join us for dinner!”

Oh god, he was hoping he wouldn’t be noticed, what with all the fuss the Russian team’s arrival had made.  But no, JJ was definitely looking his way.  That stupid grin lit up the entire room, and _Christ_ , if he wanted to invite Otabek that badly, couldn’t he just be polite and normal for once and send him a text like everybody else?  Even just asking at a proper volume would have worked, instead of shouting it for everyone between and around them to hear.

Behind him, Yuri Plisetsky slipped away and was swallowed up by a crowd of screaming girls.  Poor kid.

JJ was waiting for an answer, his smile dazzling and unfaltering as ever, as if nothing had ever been wrong between them.  As if the last time they’d seen each other hadn’t been a shouting match as Otabek moved his things out of the apartment.

As if neither of them had toyed with the word “love” and found that its edges were sharper than the blades they would be dancing on that weekend.

His stupid arm was around stupid Bella, who he knew for a fact still wasn’t living with JJ because of their whole religious thing.

Otabek couldn’t imagine wasting an hour or even a half-hour of his week in Barcelona pretending to enjoy a meal with them.

“I’ll pass,” he mumbled.  He was probably a little too tickled at the looks of vacant surprise on their faces as he turned to walk away.  Not many people passed on King JJ these days, but Otabek was happy to step up to the challenge.

He spent the entirety of his first night in Barcelona editing clips for his gig that weekend.  If all else failed, at least he had DJing to fall back on and keep him sane.

JJ caught him heading out the hotel’s front door the next morning and tried to strongarm him into grabbing some coffee before practice.  Otabek mumbled something about having already had enough caffeine and pushed past; he was pretty sure he’d seen a bike rental down the street, and he didn’t have a practice slot booked until tomorrow anyway.

He needed some way to get all his gear to the club, after all.

It took some time for the shop to process his passport and the hefty stack of forms he’d filled out, but it wasn’t even late afternoon by the time Otabek was cruising around chilly Barcelona on a bike the same make, model, and year of his own back in Almaty.

Besides music, it was the only thing that really made him feel at ease. He liked bikes for the same reason he liked DJing—it was way less stressful to be out doing his own thing than to be stuffed in a car with others.  He owed nothing to anybody this way, at least in terms of socializing.

He’d intended to take the bike out for the day and do some quality riding before practices started and he’d have to spend most of his time around other people.  However, a few blocks from the hotel he found his path blocked by a sea of… cat girls?  At first, he thought he was going crazy.  But then, in the middle of it all and almost camouflaged by his own looks, Otabek caught sight of the Russian kid, looking trapped and exasperated and exhausted.

And like… maybe a _little_ company wouldn’t be so bad, right?

“Get on.”

 

 

The benefit of a bike is being able to get far, fast.

Otabek was sure that no one from the ISU or Yuri’s Angels or JJ’s Girls or anything either of them could be affiliated with would catch up to them here.

Which was good, because it was kind of embarrassing talking to a teen who, as far as he was concerned, had it all together compared to him.

It was _mega_ -embarrassing admitting that he looked up to him, despite being older.  He hadn’t meant to open up as much as he did, but somehow it felt natural to tell Yuri about his struggles on the road to becoming a skater, how his body never seemed to suit ballet, or how isolating it was having to study with the kids in order to catch up.

Yuri was more than cool about it though, for someone so notoriously crass and ill-disposed.  Hell, he didn’t even _know_ Yuri could smile until a smile like cool summer rain flashed in his direction.  It washed over him like some sort of secret praise, and goddamnit, how could this kid be so cool?

He always moved too fast.  He always got attached.

He blurted out “So will you be my friend or not?” like it was some sort of ultimatum, out of the blue, and with enough intensity, he might as well have been asking Yuri to marry him.

_Shit, no, what?  Not like—he wasn’t—_

Yuri had every right to drag him through the mud at that moment.  It was the least cool thing he could have said.  God, it probably sounded so idiotic, like that time he’d said he loved JJ over the phone, and “no you don’t, silly,” was a thousand times more palatable to the kind of ridicule he thought this punk might be capable of—

“That’s the first time anyone’s ever asked me that,” Yuri said.  The green in his eyes was so warm it was almost gold, and in the setting Spanish sun, they sparkled like citrine. 

Otabek was going to have a hard time focusing on the GPF.

 

 

How he and Yuri wound up in a crowd of skaters— _and fans? Maybe?  He wasn’t sure why there were two random Japanese women sitting right next to him.  They definitely weren’t skaters, one was chainsmoking right in his face and god, it made him want a cigarette_ —Otabek would never know.  He hadn’t done this kind of thing since he lived in Canada, and he definitely hadn’t done it sober.  A few of the other skaters were drinking, but he’d decided since Yuri wasn’t old enough yet he’d show some solidarity.  Nothing like alienating a new friend the same day as meeting him.

“Explain to me why everyone is calling you Yurio,” Otabek muttered in Russian, since he was sure only one other person at the table would understand, and he was pretty sure Viktor Nikiforov was too enamored by Katsuki to notice.

“Because Katsudon and I have the same name,” Yuri muttered through a mouthful of paella.

“Katsudon?”

“If I can’t be Yuri, he can’t be Yuri,” he grinned, and god, coming from that face that usually conveyed nothing beyond disgust and annoyance, that grin was so damn contagious. 

“You’re an asshole,” Otabek said, jabbing his elbow lightly into Yuri’s side.

And then the room exploded.  Phichit Chulanont had never quite been Otabek’s speed, and he wasn’t quite sure he was Katsuki’s speed either, but they were apparently best friends, and Katsuki was apparently married to Viktor Nikiforov, and there were two strange women next to him, and Yuri was just about the only thing that made sense to him anymore. 

“Oh no, this is just an engagement ring,” Viktor laughed, waving a hand as if to dissipate the din that had erupted around them.  “We’ll get married after Yuuri wins gold at the GPF.”

 _Oof_.

As loud as it had just been a moment ago, at Viktor’s words the table went dead silent.  Did he realize he was sitting among all Katsuki’s competitors?  Was that an intentional dig, or was Viktor really as dumb as Yuri said he was?

Oh, wait, not _all_ of Katsuki’s competitors.  But leave it to JJ to run up to any challenge against his name, direct or otherwise, even when he wasn’t around.  As far as Otabek was concerned, he might have popped up out of the floor at the very mention of the GPF.

There was no reason to “JJ Style” in the middle of a crowded restaurant, especially after announcing his already-public plans to get married after he won gold.  How did Bella keep a straight face around him?

The chill that had momentarily washed over the group seemed to dissipate as everyone laughed off what had commonly become accepted as “some classic JJ antics.” It didn’t look like anyone at the table necessarily _disliked_ him (save for Yuri, who had already given Otabek his piece about just how badly he wanted to see that fucking shitwad eat his own J-hands), but when Viktor Nikiforov found them and shot a round of invitation texts out to the rest of the skaters, Otabek definitely noticed JJ’s number had not made the list.

And there it was. Otabek thought he’d been doing pretty good, right? He’d moved on? He was hanging out with someone new, albeit younger than he was willing to date, and he’d spent the day…

…meticulously keeping his distance and distracting himself with his favorite activities.

He’d subconsciously shaped his day around avoiding “people,” and really, how bad were “people” as long as they weren’t the one _person_ he still couldn’t get over?

God, he still wasn’t over JJ.

And now JJ was going to marry the lipstick girl.

And if Otabek accepted that, he’d be accepting a Concrete, Final, Definite End.

That was it.

“Dude. Otabek. You okay?”

Yuri shook him from his momentary lapse with one hand, still loading up the other with prawns and little bits of scallop.

“Yeah,” Otabek muttered, shaking his head against the dangerous thoughts swirling in his head as if doing so might wipe them out.

They lingered, muted as they were in the back of his mind.

“Fucking hate that guy,” Yuri spat.

“Yeah.”

Although neither of them had been able to shut up since they started talking earlier that day, things weren’t quite the same after that.

Yuri reverted to his notoriously surly disposition once the conversation turned exclusively to the topic of the newly-engaged couple at the table, a turn from which he never really recovered for the rest of the night.

And Otabek was trying to reckon with the fact that a handful of run-ins with JJ had him back to his old, hopeless self.

Some sick trick of his mind had slipped the words “last chance” into his subconscious.

_This could be his last chance._

He hadn’t had sex since he moved home.

He and Yuri rode back to the hotel just early enough that he’d have to lie awake with his thoughts for at least an hour before he could trick his body into drifting off to sleep.  He’d considered asking Yuri to come keep him company, but there was no way he’d be able to explain why, and the last thing he wanted was to give the wrong impression.  The younger skater disappeared into his room before Otabek could think of something cool to say, leaving him with nothing but a wave and a “text me” and the barest of glances over his shoulder.

He already had a bottle of wine open from last night’s mixing session, and it was somewhere in the middle of his second glass that Otabek found himself opening his messenger app and staring down a blinking cursor in the empty text box under the banner, “Jean.”

He knew he shouldn’t do it.

What was he supposed to say? 

“Hey I know you’re engaged, but I suspect you’re still up for some casual sex”?

“Strap-ons aren’t the same, wanna get dicked down one last time”?

It wasn’t even a good idea anyway.

It was a horrible idea.

In the end, he tapped his room number into the body of the message and hit “send.”

The little meter indicated that it sent before he even had a chance to think about canceling it.

And then came the anticipation, a nauseating cocktail of “what have I done?” and “what comes next?” that Otabek tried to chase with the last half of his glass.  And when that didn’t work, he poured himself a third.  And god, if it weren’t the middle of the season and literally one of the most important competitions of his life, he’d probably be able to finish the job with a cigarette or two.

And shit, what would Yuri think if he found out?  It was only this morning that Otabek had watched JJ antagonize him and his fans beyond the limits of friendly competitive nature.  Yuri had told him later just how difficult it was to have fun when people like _that_ make it all about themselves.  How small it made him feel to have someone pulling intimidation tactics his first year in seniors.

Otabek had fought the urge to wrap around his new friend and protect him from the insecurity he was evidently hiding underneath that prickly exterior.

And now he was literally trying to hop in bed with the enemy.

His regret faded into resolve as he decided that if he wasn’t awake when JJ responded, he could blame jet lag and preparation for practice tomorrow and apologize about everything in the morning.  Maybe he could even brush it off as a mistake, as though he’d meant to hit Yuri’s name, but his finger had slipped –  all the way down to their last conversation almost two years ago.

Whatever, he’d done it, and it sucked, and quite honestly he hated himself for it, and there was nothing left to do but go to sleep and deal with it in the morning.

He pulled off his shirt and shuffled over to the bed, falling into it face-first and letting his body sink into the overly-fluffy hotel mattress.  Most of his body was still hanging off the side, his feet still planted and supporting him on the floor, but Otabek was pretty sure he could fall asleep like this.

Just as he found the willpower to pull himself up entirely onto the bed, he heard a knock at the door, sharp and quick but soft enough to be considered discrete.

Fuck.  _Fuck._  

He considered ignoring it.  He considered just waiting it out; there was no way JJ would have the patience to stick around if he didn’t answer the door right away.  It wasn’t like he had anything to lose.  He could always go back to Bella.

On the other hand, all Otabek had ever had was Jean.

He didn’t even wait for a second knock.

He opened the door to find JJ, sweatpantsed and bespectacled and looking a lot more apprehensive than Otabek had anticipated.  But of course he was.  This wasn’t something either of them should have been doing.

“Is this what I think it is?” JJ asked, hovering halfway in the room but with one foot poised to carry him back out into the hall if need be.

“You know I’ve never been great at reading minds,” Otabek deadpanned.  “I thought, you know—”  He trailed off, lips flapping fruitlessly as he tried to come up with a suitable way to phrase the second half of that thought.  He settled with an eye-roll and a vague wave of his hand.

Somehow, some-stupid-how, that was enough.

“I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me,” JJ said, making a beeline for the armchair in the corner and throwing himself down into it.  He looked like he’d crawled out of bed to come here. 

“I didn’t,” Otabek admitted.

“You really fucking hurt me last time we—”

“Jean, can we please not?” Otabek pressed.  “You’re right.  Last time was… bad,” he conceded.  “I was trying to force a situation that wasn’t happening.”

JJ frowned.  “No, no, I was an ass.  I saw that shit from the beginning, and I never did anything about it,” he argued.  Then he laughed a little introspective laugh, the kind that teased out his dimples and reminded Otabek exactly what he was trying to pull here.  “I guess I never was great at looking out for other people, huh?”

Now it was Otabek’s turn to laugh as he threw himself backward onto the bed.  Then again, he reckoned that wasn’t entirely true.  After all, JJ had been his personal ambassador from Day One of living in North America, even way back in the Celestino days.  He’d always had his back at parties and practices and whenever his parents didn’t have enough to send him money for that month’s rent.

He thought about saying so, but he wasn’t quite sure how.

“So am I right in picking up vibes from this whole shirtless thing you have going on?” JJ asked, reclining back and being less-than-subtle with the way his eyes raked Otabek’s bare chest.  “Like, this was a booty call, right?”

“I guess so,” Otabek hummed, his cheeks burning. 

“Shit, Beks, you know you’re my weakness.”

“I’m not trying to, you know, like before.  I’m past that,” he mumbled, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and sitting up to face JJ straight on.  “I just thought… we’ve made so many bad memories.  Let’s make some… _fuck”_

“That’s fuckin’ cheesy,” JJ laughed.

And with that, Otabek grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him up into his lap, gasping against the long-forgotten feeling of their bodies pressed together. 

The sex was fast and frantic, their bodies reeling with a shimmering energy that had never quite made it into Otabek’s bedroom back in their Toronto apartment.  For once, it wasn’t bittersweet, or laced with rules unspoken but mutually understood, rules that Otabek had loved to break, had hoped he could undo in doing so. 

There were no hidden expectations.  This was all he had wanted, one last time.

And for once, it felt real.

When JJ got dressed half an hour later, Otabek worried for a moment about the feelings that would follow once he walked out the door.  But they never did. 

“I missed you, Beks,” JJ sighed, pulling his jacket on.  “Don’t be a stranger after this, okay?” he asked.

“I’ll try.”

“See you on the ice,” JJ said with a wink.

And then it was over.  For good, Otabek thought to himself.

For good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SEE! not... as... angsty? No it's totally still pretty angsty. But with a... ?? Don't make me try to explain myself, I cannot.
> 
> The chapter is named after [Mutiny Below](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BiKh2weHD1Q) by LUDO
> 
> Next time... the thrilling conclusion!


	13. The Sound of Pulling Heaven Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Hey, you paid last time, let me at least—“ Yuri started, but Otabek wouldn’t hear it. In fact, almost losing his best friend and learning what that friend’s true feelings were all in the same week had switched something in his head. He wanted Yuri to know in no uncertain terms what he wanted._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _“Ma’am, do not ever accept money from him as long as we’re here together,” he said with a little smirk in the cafe owner’s direction. “Got it?”_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _She flashed him a knowing smile and nodded, with Yuri cursing and raving in the background._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! Thank you for reading!
> 
> The chapter title is from [a song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=voBiSK-eoug) by Blue October!

St. Petersburg, 2016

 

Otabek was nervous.  Not “competition” nervous, or “overseas flight” nervous.  No, this felt infinitely bigger than either of those, and he wasn’t entirely sure why.

 

It was just Yuri.  Before everything fell apart, they were spending entire days in the comfort of one another’s company.  No pressure, no walls, just hanging out.

 

And honestly, Otabek wasn’t sure which one of them fucked it up first.

 

But they’d worked it out.  They’d been texting for a day or two now.  It wasn’t the same easy, irreverent banter they’d developed over their few months of friendship, but at least they weren’t at an impasse anymore. At least Otabek didn’t have to go entire days without hearing from Yuri.

 

_I swear to god if you’re  
_ _late I’m ghosting you._

 

_Again?_

 

_For good this time, too._

 

_Can’t wait._

 

Otabek was, in fact, early.  He loitered restlessly around the far corner of Mallika’s, just out of sight from the front entrance of Yuri’s apartment building, because like hell was he going to be caught _early_ to this rendezvous either.  He already faced the guarantee of unending harassment over The JJ Thing, but in his defense, it was Yuri who’d asked.  Here, sober, in broad daylight in front of God and everybody, Otabek couldn’t be pegged as too eager. He may have been a little antsy at home, knowing today was the day things would start to creep back towards normal—and maybe even better than normal—but he needed to play it cool for at least one goddamn second.

 

Outwardly, at least, he knew he could play it cool.  It was the thing he did best, possibly better than skating or mixing.  But Otabek knew himself well enough to know that if he wasn’t careful he’d get overexcited and idealistic and start rushing.  Just as he’d done with JJ. Just as he’d almost done with Yuri, that night after the banquet in Barcelona. He trusted Yuri with everything.  But he wasn’t sure he trusted himself enough to let his walls down just yet.

 

Otabek twirled a strawberry and cream sucker between his teeth and tongue, grinding his toe into the dirt around back of the cafe, while he waited for Yuri to text his arrival.  He wished to hell it was a cigarette, but even after just a few days he was starting to feel the tension ease in the back of his neck, the edge of _want, want, want_ waning a little more with every passing day.

 

 _I’m walking outside and I_ _  
_ _don’t see you.  Goodbye_  
forever.

 

“Oh, shit,” Otabek muttered, instinctively spitting his lollipop out onto the ground before realizing what he’d done.  He didn’t even have time to mourn the snack as he jogged out from around the corner and towards the cafe door, slowing his pace just as he approached in an effort to appear casual.

 

And Yuri was walking towards him, looking a thousand times better than the last time they’d seen each other.

 

“Oi, isn’t your apartment that way?”

 

As in, he looked _beautiful._

 

“I had some errands to run,” Otabek muttered, combing his bangs back out of his eyes with his fingertips.  Yuri studied him dubiously before chuckling, his face breaking into, Christ, a fucking grin right off the bat, and Otabek knew playing it cool wasn’t even on the table anymore.  They’d barely exchanged ten words between them and Otabek was far beyond playing it cool.

 

“You fuckin’ came early, didn’t you?” Yuri jabbed.  The smile had yet to fade from his face, and God, Otabek was so grateful to hear that devious drawl even as it dragged him through the dirt.

 

He pulled Yuri in close before he could stop himself, throwing the blond off-balance but snatching him up in a tight hug before he could lose his footing.  He felt the tightening of limbs and tensing of shoulders against him as Yuri tried to self-preserve, but after a few moments his lithe form relaxed, warm and soft, against Otabek’s.  He even brought his arms up to wrap them briefly around Otabek’s middle before he pushed away in earnest.

 

“Come on, don’t be weird,” Yuri mumbled.  “It was only a couple of days.” And even though he pushed through the glass door without so much as a backward glance, Otabek could still see the dusting of rose blooming across his cheeks as he entered the cafe.  

 

He took a beat before he followed after.  It was all he could do not to trot behind Yuri like a helpless puppy.  

 

“Oh, it’s my boys!” Mallika sang as she wiped up behind the counter.  “I haven’t seen either of you for a few days! Busy skating?”

 

Otabek caught up to Yuri at the counter.  The younger skater practically had his face pressed up against the glass of the dessert case as he inspected the pastries on display.

 

“Training for next season started up this week,” Otabek replied, nonchalant as he could manage despite the excitement buzzing through his veins.  “Yura here is an international champion already, did you know?”

 

“Oi!” Yuri growled as Mallika’s face lit up.

 

“I know,” she beamed.  “The girls followed him all last year!  Such a magnificent talent, Yura, you should be so proud.”

 

Yuri did not look proud so much as he did annoyed as the cafe’s owner poured two coffees and arranged them on a tray.

 

“Do you want any sandwiches?  Lunch is starting soon,” she asked.

 

“Apricot briooooooche,” Yuri moaned, hanging onto the glass case as if his life depended on what was inside.  “I want all the apricot brioche.”

 

Mallika shot an amused glance at Otabek.  

 

That little shit.  What right did he have acting cute like that when they still had issues between them to work out?

 

“We’ll take all the apricot brioches,” Otabek sighed, pulling out his wallet and handing Mallika a few bills.  “As well as a turkey sandwich.”

 

“Hey, you paid last time, let me at least—“ Yuri started, but Otabek wouldn’t hear it.  In fact, almost losing his best friend and learning what that friend’s true feelings were all in the same week had switched something in his head.  He wanted Yuri to know in no uncertain terms what he wanted.

 

“Ma’am, do not ever accept money from him as long as we’re here together,” he said with a little smirk in the cafe owner’s direction.  “Got it?”

 

She flashed him a knowing smile and nodded, with Yuri cursing and raving in the background.

 

Otabek grabbed the coffee tray in one hand and scooped Yuri up in his free arm and brought them both to a booth near the window.  The pile of brioches between them was instantly pilfered by Yuri, who made quick work of the first one in only about three bites.

 

“Fuck, this is good,” he groaned.  “I wanted this when I was hungover.”

 

“I want you,” Otabek blurted, so abruptly he surprised even himself.  

 

Yuri nearly spit out his bun.  “Wh—What? Beka, we’re out in public!”

 

Otabek shook his head.  “No, not like… I want Yura.  LIke… To be around you and stuff.  I want you around. And I couldn’t figure out what my boundaries were when you said that thing.  I wanted to make sure I wasn’t screwing it up again.”

 

Yuri gasped, reaching out and taking Otabek’s face in his hands.  “You didn’t fuck anything up,” he growled, the slightest hint of a glare in his eyes.  “That Canadian asshole led you on!.”

 

“No, I knew,” Otabek said, feeling the heat rising in his cheeks.  He kept his eyes on his pastry as he said what he knew he needed to admit.  “I knew he couldn’t resist and so I pushed for something I knew wasn’t real.  Something I knew he saw as a mistake.” He put his hands over Yuri’s pulling them down away from his face.  “I don’t want it to be like that with you.”

 

Yuri stared at him for a good while, a searching gaze that tore through him, made him feel raw and exposed.  All the while, he kept his hands nestled between Otabek’s on the table between them.

 

Yura’s hands fingertips had been warm from holding his coffee cup, but like this they were ice cold, and Otabek could not help but warm them in his as they talked.  He brushed his thumb over Yuri’s knuckles, red and cracked from never wearing gloves in the rink.

 

“You fucking idiot,” Yuri finally said, so seriously that Otabek’s insides turned to ice.  “Do you really think I would let you do that?”

 

Otabek felt his face burn red.

 

“I’m not some sloppy sap like Viktor, chasing ass halfway across the globe after one drunken proposal,” Yuri huffed, suddenly withdrawing his hands and sitting back, arms folded, in his seat.  “You know neither of them had the guts to say anything to one another until the night they got engaged?”

 

“That can’t be true,” Otabek said with a frown.  

 

Yuri threw his head back, thrusting his hands out in a dramatic, questioning gesture.  “Right?!” he exclaimed through a mouthful of brioche. “Except they’ve both admitted it!”

 

Otabek couldn’t help but laugh along with Yuri then, and suddenly it was back to normal.  Back to together and casual and loose, but with something more just underneath. Something in the way the corners of Yuri’s mouth quirked upward when their eyes met, just at the same time as Otabek felt his breath leave him.  A shared, secret _something_ that they didn’t have to say.

 

It was the way they let their ankles tangle under the table, casual and minute but the only thing that filled Otabek’s mind as he told Yuri about his chat with Viktor.

 

How they pushed through the door at the same time, their shoulders brushing together as they squeezed through.

 

Otabek walked Yuri back up to his apartment, listening the whole way as Yuri recounted his talk with Katsuki, how he’d walked in during an embarrassing bit of skate therapy and never batted an eye.  

 

“Do you want to come play some video games?” Yuri asked when they reached the door.”

 

Otabek really wanted to play video games.  He wanted to stay forever, just bask in whatever this smiley feeling was that had them both chatting away.  He realized it was the same feeling he’d had in Barcelona, after he’d asked to be Yuri’s friend. Once they laid bare their thoughts and feelings, they were able to just kick back and enjoy themselves, to bask in each other’s company.  

 

Otabek wanted to chase that feeling more than ever.

 

But he had practice with Viktor in an hour.

 

“I really wish I could,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets awkwardly.  Yuri hovered just inside the door, that searching look back in his eyes again.

 

“Do you want to come play video games… later?” He asked apprehensively, although he wasn’t able to contain the upward curl of his lip as he spoke, a little, private smile.

 

Once again, the answer was yes, but once again, Otabek couldn’t just say yes, because something about this moment was too right and too perfect.  He felt an opening and something inside urged him to take it.

 

“Actually,” he said, scratching at the back of his neck, unable to totally meet Yuri’s eyes.  “Can I take you out tonight? A buddy of mine is DJing not far from here.”

 

“Like a date?’ Yuri asked.

 

“Yeah… Yeah, like a date,” Otabek mumbled.  He thought he might melt through the floor, the way his face burned.

 

“I don’t know,” Yuri hummed with a suspicious squint.  “Last time you said your buddy was DJing, it turned out to be you.”

 

“Honest truth,” Otabek pledged.  “Yura, I only ever want to be honest and open with you.”

 

That dusty pink color sprang to Yuri’s cheeks again, and his sneer softened into a surprised smile.

 

“Yeah,” he said.  “Yeah, that would be nice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> If you like what you've read, I always appreciate kudos and comments! Hits let me know you're out there, Kudos let me know I have your attention, but Comments are the best way to show a writer your appreciation!
> 
> For nightly fic chapters and lots of reblogged YoI content, check out [my tumblr](http://kingfisherunion.tumblr.com)


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